Asking a Shadow to Dance
by CampbellM
Summary: Jack is troubled by a gruesome murder, one he swears he won't let Phryne anywhere near. Yet he learns once again that telling Miss Fisher no is easier said than done. The pair must race against the clock to catch a monster before someone else ends up dead, all while trying to make sense of their deepening relationship.
1. Chapter 1

Just a quick note: My apologies, but I must admit I'm a filthy American. Do not hesitate to call me out if you see any glaring Americanisms! I'm trying to beat it out of myself but any help is much appreciated. I'm very new to MFMM so have pity on a poor girl and let me know what you think! Thanks for reading!

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><p>It had been a tip from Dot that had brought Phryne Fisher to police headquarters on this otherwise insignificant Tuesday. Phryne hadn't had a good murder in a solid month, so all it had taken was Dot to casually mention, "Hugh couldn't come to breakfast this morning, something kept them terribly busy through the night."<p>

"Oh?" Phryne had replied, trying to disguise her peaked interest. "Did he say what it was?"

"No, Miss. And I didn't think to ask."

No, of course Dot would not have asked. "Never mind. We'll just pop by on our way to the milliner's, see what has them in such a frenzy."

"Are you sure, Miss?" asked Dot in her sweetly timid way, "I'm sure the detective inspector would have called if he needed our assistance."

Phryne was not so sure of that, and if there was a juicy case he was trying to keep from her, there was nothing in the world that could keep her from at least stopping into headquarters to see what her serious-faced inspector was trying to keep hushed up. And it didn't hurt that she was eager to see him in general.

Thus she had rushed to the station promptly after breakfast, Dot in tow, hardly noticing Hugh's surprise as they blustered in.

"Miss Fisher! Dottie! Is everything all right? You didn't telephone, did you? I stepped out for a moment, I must have not have heard it ring," said Hugh, looking slightly nervous at their sudden entry.

"Everything is just fine, Hugh. Never fear, I didn't telephone you. Can't I simply drop by to see my two most favorite enforcers of the law?"

Hugh obliged her with a small but strained smile, "Now might not be the best time, Miss. We're facing a rather difficult case just now, the inspector is frightfully busy."

"I'll just drop in for a quick hello, Hugh. I shan't distract him for long."

Hugh must have known better than to try and deter her further, for he returned to his chair with a resigned sigh. Phryne left him with Dot and swept into Jack's office with but a small knock of warning. As she entered he was hurriedly stowing a stack of photographs and papers into a drawer, clearly meaning to hide them from her. Once this was accomplished, he settled back over another set of papers and began writing as if he had been doing so all along, affording her but a moment's glance. Strange. She closed the door behind her, all the while watching him closely.

"Miss Fisher," he greeted her coolly, eyes still on his papers. He looked as if he wanted to say something else, but instead settled for, "Good morning."

"So serious, Jack. Whatever could you be doing?" She found a clear spot on his desk to lean herself upon, propping her leg so that her black crepe-de-chine trousers were pulled taut against her thigh, in a way she hoped Jack found enticing. Alas, he didn't seem in the mood to notice today.

"Investigating a murder, Miss Fisher, if that's quite all right with you."

She rested a graceful hand across her breastbone in playful shock. "Investigating? Murder? Sitting at a desk? And without me?"

His eyes flicked up to her face and then back to his task. "Not all investigation is snooping around and chasing criminals through the streets. There's quite a lot of paperwork involved, as you well know. And when do I ever have to _ask _you to help me investigate? You're quite skilled at finding your way to me."

"Paperwork? Isn't that what Hugh is for?" she teased, trying to coax that smile from him that she'd become more and more accustomed to seeing.

He shook his head but didn't answer her. It seemed he was not in the mood to be goaded this morning.

"What is the case?" she asked after a moment's silence, slightly sobered by his somber mood.

He let out a troubled breath. "You'll not have any part of this one, Miss Fisher," he said quietly, and for the first time Phryne really looked at him. Upon closer inspection, his face was hard, haggard, strained. Odder still he had forgotten his pomade. His hair was mussed and soft, falling into his eyes in a way that made her fingers itch to sweep it back. Though she might enjoy this new style, it did not bode well in regards to his overall state. It appeared he had been at the station all night working on whatever case he had left her decidedly out of.

She spoke softly to him. "Whatever it is, I can handle it, Jack. Surely you've learned that about me by now."

"Just because you _can _handle something, does not mean you _should_," he ground out somewhat aggressively, rubbing one of his large hands slowly over his face. "This is not poison in the sugar pot or a booby-trapped book of poetry. This was something brutal, monstrous, despicable. _Evil_. Done to an innocent child. It is not an image I want in my own mind, let alone yours. And don't say I'm trying to shield you because you're a woman. I'm trying to shield you because you're a human, and no human should have to see so brutally what one's own species is capable of. "

He let his words hang in the air for several moments. Instinctively, Phryne knew better than to break the silence. Then he looked her hard in the eyes. "I cannot...I _will_ not have you near this one, Phryne Fisher. This time I mean it. You will busy yourself with something else, I don't care what."

He did mean it. All one had to do was hear the suffering in his voice. Phryne knew she must back down this one time. It was rare for him to try and give her a direct order, as he knew how little chance there was of her following it. This alone imparted how serious he was.

But it didn't mean she couldn't be present for him. She walked over to him tentatively, for once wishing she wasn't wearing flashy pumps that loudly declared her every step with a crisp _clack. _It was a moment for bare feet, to pad over to him quietly, gently. She laid a hand over his bent neck and let her fingers delicately massage the knob of bone at his nape. He let out a slow, shuddering sigh at the contact and she saw his eyes briefly close. "You can at least tell me what happened. For your own sake. I promise not to get involved."

"I won't."

"Jack," she cajoled.

"I will _not._"

It must be very bad indeed. "Very well then, I will not press you. Can I bring you something? You look like you'll be here late. I have a few errands this morning, but this evening...if you'd like some dinner, or anything at all...?" She wasn't sure what prompted her, but something about his face beseeched her to take care of him. In this office, now, between the two of them, he was not the impervious detective inspector that took nearly everything, including watching her dance mostly naked in a gentleman's club, in stride. Today, in this moment, he needed tending to, and damned if she would let that task fall to someone else.

After another bone-deep sigh he muttered, "A large whiskey then, if it pleases you."

"It always does, my poor, dear man. I'll be along later this evening. And Jack—do try not to take it too hard."

He ran both of his hands through his hair then shook his head. "Too late for that, Miss Fisher."

She wasn't sure what made her do it, other than the feeling that he simply needed it, but she leaned down and pressed her lips lingeringly to his temple. "Ta-ta for now, then."

And she left him, not even bothering to wipe away the smudge of lipstick she had left for fear of seeing his reaction to her bold kiss.


	2. Chapter 2

Hey guys, thanks for all the awesome feedback! Y'all are the coolest. Glad you enjoyed! I'm definitely planning on more chapters, they won't all come this quickly but hopefully I can get another one up tomorrow. Thanks again, and as always, let me know what you think!

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><p>Jack Robinson occupied her thoughts for the remainder of her day. She floated through her appointment at the milliner's so that she hardly remembered at all what sort of headwear she had ordered. She barely garnered anything at all from the lecture she attended with Mac, so much so that she ducked out early. In the end she sent Dot on to give her regrets to the group of heiresses she had arranged to meet for luncheon and retired home early, closing herself in the quiet of her bedroom to allow some privacy and space to air out her nagging, clamorous thoughts.<p>

He was shutting her out of the case but he had asked her back this evening. Well, _allowed_ her back, at least. With whiskey. He was in a vulnerable, needy state, though he was trying even more desperately than usual to keep it sewn up. Alcohol and emotional rawness were the perfect recipe for Phryne to finally make her move. He would need comforting, and oh, how she longed to give it to him.

There was little doubt in her mind that he knew how she felt about him. She had offered him so many wordless invitations, given him so many openings, done all but ask him outright to take her to bed, yet each time he resisted her. With difficulty, if Phryne's instincts were correct. And they usually were.

She could guess well enough what gave him pause. For one thing, he was no doubt concerned that Phryne would struggle to make their relationship exclusive, as she never made a secret of the fact that monogamy was not really her taste.

Yet somehow, now, the idea intrigued her. For Jack she thought she might be able to make an exception. She was certainly willing to try, at least. These days, when she thought of other men, they paled in comparison to Jack. When she felt a surge of desire it was only for him, and any man she used to scratch that itch was little more than a feeble stand-in.

Her thoughts flitted back to two nights ago, when she had dipped her face unnecessarily close to bid him good night. Mostly she did it to make him squirm, although he wasn't the sort of man to truly squirm. But she hoped it would unnerve him. It also allowed her to take in his glorious scent, leather and cedar with the tang of citrus from his aftershave.

"Jack," she'd murmured, their faces so close that eye contact was difficult and her gaze fell instead to his parted lips.

"Miss Fisher?" His warm breath drifted sweetly over her face, smelling of gin and the ginger biscuits they had just eaten.

She then reached up to straighten his hat, which had not been at all crooked. "Until the next time."

"Indeed, Miss Fisher. Sleep tight, now."

And with only a moment of deliciously taut hesitation, during which he stole a fleeting but pointed moment of eye contact, he had pulled back from her and into the night. She was certain there was a bit more tension in his bearing as he walked away.

As soon as his motorcar pulled out of sight, a rush of frantic longing had lit through Phryne like a swig of Irish Moonshine. The loss of him yet another time was heat and emptiness and arousal and distress. It heightened her excitement, as it always did, but she wasn't sure how much higher that excitement could climb before she lost her footing and tumbled into something else entirely.

It was a role reversal of almost laughable irony. He often adopted the virtuous, restrained female role while she was the brash, conquering, insatiable male, trying every trick in her register to lure him to her bed.

So far, her usual tricks were not getting the job done. He resisted her usual charms again and again, instead matching them with his own, and she was beginning to doubt she was ever really skilled at seduction to begin with. But no, others slid gladly between her sheets. Jack Robinson was the one that got away. And got away. And got away.

And yet, she couldn't give him up. There was something searing and sexual between them that showed no signs of waning, no matter how often he silently refused to give in to her. The only way to escape from it completely would be to cut him out of her life, and they had tried that once all ready. It would never work. They were drawn together like magnets, again and again as if by the very laws of physics, and she had neither the strength nor desire to push him away.

She _would_ get him where she wanted him. He was a man, after all. He had needs, needs he had been repressing for some time if her suspicions were correct, and it was only a matter of time before instinct would triumph over honor. She would find a way to have him, it was simply a question of determining the method. It seemed the long, heated gazes and innocent caresses were not enough. But if she pushed him too far too fast she would trigger his defenses. It was delicate game, but Phryne was the master of delicacy. In the end, she would find a way to solve the mystery of Jack Robinson.

Phryne dressed carefully for her evening visit with Jack. She wanted to be comforting—provocative yet conservative, sweet yet alluring. She needed to be appealing and nonthreatening all at once. She landed on a simple, girlish drop-waist frock of coral chiffon with a skirt of tiered ruffles and a neckline just low enough to be interesting. She went back and forth with the matching cloche but ended up leaving it behind, feeling that it closed off her face when she wanted to be nothing but open to him.

She even chose to go without her signature red lipstick, deciding that glamour was the wrong note to play tonight. Warm and familiar and soothing was what Jack would need. And these days, what made him happy made her so as well.

She had Mr. Butler wrap together a small meal of brie and crusty bread and aged salami, something simple for him to nibble on while he worked. And the most important element, her largest and finest bottle of Scotch. She told Mr. Butler to hold the glasses—she felt that tonight would be a straight-from-the-bottle sort of night. If she could get enough of it in him...well, there was any number of things that might happen.

"Magnificent, Mr. Butler, as always," said Phryne, deciding to speak rather than explore the heated path of her thoughts. If she could find a way take advantage of him tonight, she would do so without shame. If he didn't know what was good for him sober, he would have to learn in his cups.

"Off I go then," she announced to Dot with a kiss on the cheek.

"Are you sure you won't let me come with you, Miss?" asked Dot, looking concerned. "I'd rather you weren't all alone after dark."

"Honestly, Dot, do you really think I cannot handle myself? After knowing me all this time? " Phryne gave her companion the slyest grin she could conjure.

"No, Miss, of course not. You're perfectly capable, I know that. Never mind."

"And I'll be with the inspector, no harm could possibly come to me in his care."

"You're right, of course, Miss."

Satisfied, Phryne bundled her bottle and picnic into the Hispano-Suiza and motored into the darkness, her mind on nothing but Jack.


	3. Chapter 3

Jack couldn't look at the photographs any longer. They made him ill, just as ill as seeing the crime scene in person. He hadn't eaten in almost two days for what it had done to his stomach and mind.

He looked up to Hugh's tap on the door frame. "Sir, I'm going home if it's all right with you. I don't think I can be here another moment."

"I told you to go home hours ago, Constable. Go get some rest. I'll finish up here."

Hugh gave him a small, sympathetic smile. "Sir, you should be home too. It's been more than 24 hours."

"The first 24 of many, Collins. Miss Fisher said she'd come round with drinks. I'm sure she'll insist on my departure afterwards. Off you go, I'll see you in the morning."

"Good night, sir."

"Mmm," was all Jack could manage in reply. His mind was whirling with weeping parents and faceless suspects and carnage. So much carnage. And his work had only begun.

A selfish part of him wished he could have Phryne by his side on this miserable case. It would be a comfort to have her to bounce ideas off of, to talk late into the night with, discussing theories and whatever else crossed their minds.

He slid out a photograph that he kept beneath the telephone on his desk, his favorite photograph from the series of "mugshots" Hugh had snapped following her first breaking and entering offence. This one depicted her making finger spectacles around her eyes with the silliest look on her face. It made him grin every time he saw it, and it didn't fail to do so even now. He had once felt downright licentious about secreting it away for his own personal use, but nowadays he was closer to having it framed and displaying it proudly. It seemed ages ago that the photograph was taken.

She was a beam of light in his world, which was momentously dark right now. He needed her near him. But no matter how much he needed her, nothing could convince him to give her the gruesome details of this case. It would bring up painful memories of her own sister, for one thing. For another, it was something no person should have to see. Not even the butchery he had witnessed in the war had prepared him for what this poor innocent had gone through.

So bleak were his thoughts that when Phryne Fisher waltzed into his office only moments later she seemed to be born to him upon a heavenly cloud, casting a soothing spell over the entire room. She was a vision in pink, all soft curves and impish blue eyes. A wicked rascal and darling angel all wrapped in one glorious package. That she carried with her a rather large bottle of Oban Single Malt elevated her practically to sainthood in his eyes.

"Miss Fisher. Hello again."

"Jack. Has your day been just awful?" She plunked the bottle of Scotch in front of him with a mischievous grin. "I completely forgot to bring glasses. Will it offend you to drink straight from the bottle?"

To prove how little it would offend him, he opened the bottle and took a generous swig. "Not in the slightest, Miss Fisher."

"Come now, Jack. It's just you and I here. Surely you can manage 'Phryne,' just this once?"

To say her name out loud unnerved him. It felt intimate, as if he was caressing her with his voice in some very personal way, just by saying her name. With some effort, he murmured, "Phryne, then."

Something darkened in her eyes and she crossed the room to him, lifting herself onto his desk so that she sat opposite him, allowing her calf to innocently brush his thigh. But there was nothing innocent about his reaction to that mild yet shamefully rousing contact.

"Miss Fi—Phryne—"

"Have you really been working all day, Jack?" she asked him, lifting the bottle to her own lips and taking a dainty sip. "And stuck at the station, no less?"

His mouth flattened into a grim line. "We did most of the interviews yesterday after the body was discovered. Now we're trying to get everything in order before the press gets wind. It's bad, Phryne. They won't get all the details, but it's going to frighten people regardless when they hear. Nothing scares people more than the idea of someone preying on children. By the time word spreads amongst the public, we must be able to convince them we have things well in hand. Besides, we can't do much more fieldwork until the autopsy is completed."

"Jack, if I'm going to read about it in the paper anyway, the least you could do is give me the basic details."

He held her gaze for several long moments before taking another deep swallow of whiskey. He waited for the alcohol to burn down his throat and kindle that familiar low fire in his belly before responding. "A child was abducted and murdered, as I'm sure you guessed already. A four-year-old girl. The daughter of some well-to-do people who I will not name, so do not ask. It's the ugliest thing I've ever seen, Phryne, and I've seen a lot of ugly things. I have to find out who did it and stop him. I cannot have a monster such as that wandering the streets. I cannot rest until he swings."

He held back a shudder at the warmth of her hand through her glove as she stroked his cheek. He reached up to grasp it in his own, holding her still but not removing her hand from his face.

"I am weakened tonight, Miss Fisher," he said, using her surname again to supply some much needed distance between them. "You would be wise not to touch me so familiarly."

"And what would be so wise about that, my darling Jack?" she returned, her voice barely above a whisper. She slid her hand out of his grasp and around the back of his neck, threading her fingers through the short strands of hair there. She leaned ever closer, and with her other hand brought the bottle of whiskey to his parted lips.

Obediently, he sipped, caught in her spell, unsure if he would be able to fend her off if she decided at long last to move in for the kill. His want for her seized through him like a violent undertow, pulling him down, down, until he couldn't remember what he was resisting in the first place.

"I've never seen you so troubled," she murmured to him, her fingers still caressing the hair at the nape of his neck. He wished she would remove those blasted gloves so he could feel the heat of her bare skin. "What I'm imagining is probably far worse than what actually happened. Come now, just tell me."

"No, Phryne," he sighed, giving her a serious look, "Whatever you're imagining, the reality is ten times worse. Just leave it. Let's talk about something else."

"All right. What shall we talk about?"

Boldly, he let his hand travel down the length of her bare left arm, which still held the bottle. Once his fingers had reached her wrist, he seized her hand and brought it and the bottle together back to his lips, taking another long drag of the fiery liquid, knowing he should not drink it all so quickly. But it made him forget. And she was so, so beautiful.


	4. Chapter 4

This was her opening, and she was going to take it. Consequences be damned. His unusual gesture of affection, that searing touch he had slid down her arm, told her all she needed to know. He may not be ready to make the first move, but he would not refuse her if she took matters into her own hands.

Phryne slid off the desk and to her feet with her most coquettish grin. She hooked her forefinger behind his collar and tie and pulled him up to her slowly, deliberately. When their mouths met it was smooth and feverish and perfect. He gave a half groan, half sigh against her lips and she wrapped her free arm around his neck to pull him closer. For a few tender moments she pressed subdued, thoughtful kisses over his deliciously wide mouth, luxuriating in the simple delight of tasting him. Before long, however, he took over control, getting to his feet and kissing her back in kind, dusting her lips with feather-light touches that made her hot about the neck and ears, that turned her thoughts into gusts of smoldering, tingling hunger.

For a moment, Phryne thought she might be able to stay like this all evening, exploring him methodically with her hands and listening to the mesmerizing, honey-sweet sounds of their lips meeting and parting, meeting and parting.

But behind every kiss grew a dark, insistent need that had been quelled by both of them for far too long. All at once something seemed to simply break between the two of them, like the last bit of trunk giving way before the tree comes crashing down. Without dividing their mouths, Jack reached down to her wrists and tugged both of her gloves off in one swift movement. With hardly a moment's hesitation, his arms were back around her again.

Just like that it was as if Phryne could not get close enough to him. She curled a hand around the back of his head and pushed his lips more insistently against her own. She wanted to feel the pressure of his body against her, wanted to latch on to him and never let go. He grasped her by the hips and lifted her easily back onto the desk, forcing her thighs wide as he crammed himself between them.

Phryne struggled to wrap herself around him even more tightly, one arm curved around his neck, hand clutching his shoulder blade, while the other stole upward around his rib cage, tight fist pressed into the valley of his spine. Thrilling, intoxicating, electrifying, exhilarating—Phryne tried many words to describe the sensations he gave her, but none were fierce enough.

She forgot to be sensible. She forgot there was a danger of scaring him off. She forgot to consider how he might perceive her, half-frantic and writhing against him. All she needed or wanted in that moment was to hold him as tightly as she could, to feel the heat of his body pressed hard against her, to hope that he wanted her just as madly as she wanted him.

No matter how she wound her arms and legs around his body, fervently searching for a tighter grip, she could never seem to hold him hard enough. And he matched her, kiss for kiss, touch for touch. His need seemed to equal hers as his hands stole beneath her dress, sliding slowly and hotly up the tops of her thighs but not yet bold enough to explore further. In between kisses he would murmur her name and little instructions and other small, indecipherable sounds. With each utterance her lust for him expanded within her like hot air.

Distantly, she recognized how very dangerous these feelings were. It was dangerous to want him so badly, to need him so intensely, even though she had been aware of her growing feelings for some time. Why did it take this explosive physical display for her to truly see how deep her feelings went? Her heart was breaking, shattering, and all from being near to him, clutched in his arms, together fighting furiously to reach some kind of epiphany with lips and limbs. What would become of her if something came between them? It was unwise to stake so much on a single man. She feared it would lead eventually to pain.

Yet in that moment, she was willing to risk all the pain in the world so long as he didn't let go of her.

"Phryne," he rasped against her lips in a voice she didn't recognize. Something had changed between them, and Phryne was quite certain there was no going back.

And she didn't want it to go back. She wanted to stay in this office with him forever, wrapped around each other as if for dear life.

The telephone, of course, had different plans.

The harsh, shrill tone scared them both out of their wits, Jack practically leaping out of her arms as if he had been given an electric shock. He swore violently and took several deep breaths, letting the phone ring while he gathered himself. Phryne watched him while he recovered, drinking in the sight of his heaving chest and red, swollen mouth. She had done quite a number on him, as had of course been her intention. She silently willed him to just let the phone ring.

But of course, Jack tended to do the right thing.

"What?" he barked into the phone, running a fretful hand through his now profoundly untidy hair.

As the caller spoke to Jack, Phryne tried to influence the caller's message in her mind. _It's nothing. Just wanted to check in. Not a worry. As you were._

Alas, it would seem mind-control was one of the few areas in which Phryne Fisher lacked skill.

"All right," Jack grunted as he scrawled an address on a scrap of paper. "Yes, all right, I'm heading straight over."

He dropped the receiver back into the cradle heavily, the lust now gone completely from his eyes. She could see him floating unhappily back down to earth.

"One hell of a night, this is," he said quietly, now trying in earnest to get his hair back in place. "Another child has been abducted."

It was the last thing Phryne had expected to hear. "Jack, you don't mean it!" she cried, her heart seizing at the expression on his face. "The same man?"

"Impossible to know for sure. But the victims are uncannily similar. Four-year-old girl, wealthy, gone from her bed. I have to get to the family's house right away." Jack's voice was burdened yet keen, and she could see the cogs turning furiously in his mind. She didn't fail to notice that he was speaking to her as if she was already on the case.

"I'm coming with you," she said quickly, before he could realize he'd shared too much.

He raised an eyebrow at her, just a twinge of amusement on his face. "Phryne, I thought we had already established—"

"That was a murder. This is a missing child. All the other officers have gone home but I'm _here_. Ignore your personal misgivings and think of it in a professional manner. I can help you. You know I can."

"Phyrne—"

"It would be an injustice to this child to leave me behind because you're trying to protect me. I can _help_, Jack," she insisted, looking at him seriously. A small part of her mind registered surprise at how quickly she had been able to put her desire in check. Though it still thrummed within her, she was able to force it down beneath the surface. Jack needed her for something else now.

He seemed to come to a decision and gave her his gravest look. "You may come along and help me interview the family. Nothing more."

Phryne knew better. All she needed was this small opening and before long she would be leading the charge. But let him think he had control over the situation for a while longer. If it meant she could get him to kiss her like that again she was willing to allow him his little illusions.

Together in the car, there was a tense silence that was very little about the missing child and very much about what had very nearly happened right on top of Detective Inspector Jack Robinson's desk. It wasn't how Phryne had planned it at all—she had intended a slow, careful seduction, more in line with the slow, careful way their relationship had progressed thus far. But it would seem that even sworn spinsters had their fair share of hormones, to say nothing of sexually repressed inspectors.

At the very least, he could not claim that tonight had occurred all in the line of duty. And she did not want this interruption to cause them to backpedal. Gone were the days where she allowed him to keep her at arm's length—she must find a way to convince him to accept her, to accept all of her, and show him she had no plans to break his heart. Quite the opposite, in fact.

As they drove, she reached over and placed her hand over his, which lay rigidly atop his thigh. "Catch me up a little, Jack," she prompted gently. "How long was it, after the other girl was abducted?"

She watched the tendons in his jaw work as he decided exactly how much to tell her. "A week."

She waited for him to elaborate. He didn't.

"And?" she pressed him.

He sighed impatiently through his nose. "She was taken from her bed the night of Sunday, October 14th. Yesterday afternoon she was discovered by a member of the family's staff in the field behind her parent's estate. No ransom note. No contact from the killer at all."

"Dreadful," muttered Phryne absently, trying desperately not to think about every awful thing that could happen to a child in the span of a week. "But that gives us some time, at least."

"Yes. With little Marjorie—the first victim—everyone assumed from the first that the nursemaid had absconded with the child, as they had both disappeared on the same night. The nursemaid, however, was tracked down the morning before the girl was found, having secretly eloped with her lover. By the time we knew what we were dealing with it was already too late."

Phryne watched his face in the dark, squeezing his hand softly. "We'll find this one. We will, Jack."

"We must," he agreed. "I simply cannot entertain any other outcome."

Phryne nodded, trying to muster a grin for him. "We're both very good at what we do. Take comfort in that."

He held his tongue for a few moments, and Phryne quietly allowed him his thoughts. Finally, he said, "About before—"

"We'll discuss it later, Jack. We can't be distracted when we speak to the family."

"Quite right," he agreed, looking relieved to let the subject drop.

Jack made a turn and Phryne became suddenly aware of where they were. "Jack. Jack, this is my neighborhood. My house is one block over."

Jack looked around as if to confirm for himself. "Blimey, you're right. I didn't realize...are you acquainted with the Crossley-Scotts?"

"No, indeed," said Phryne, gripping his fingers ever tighter. "But it seems I am about to be."


	5. Chapter 5

Mr. and Mrs. Crossley-Scott sat huddled together on the sofa in their parlor. Mrs. Crossley-Scott's pretty face was pinched with grief and wet with tears, her blonde hair coming loose from its chignon. Mr. Crossley-Scott looked simply stunned, as if he had found himself in the midst of an awful dream from which he desperately wanted to escape.

It had been no small feat to get them seated quietly. When Phryne and Jack had arrived the household had been in an uproar. Mrs. Crossley-Scott was in fits over her child's disappearance while the older two children sat huddled in their nightgowns on the stairs with their nanny, watching their father trying to calm their mother's hysterics. The two constables who had preceded Jack and Phryne to the house were having very little luck managing the situation.

"Talbot, take the children upstairs with their nanny and keep them there," Jack had instructed one of the constables, who looked particularly relieved at his superior's appearance. "MacMillan, stay with Mrs. Crossley-Scott in the parlor. Miss Fisher, with me." To Mr. Crossley-Scott, he said, "Please show me your daughter's room."

They followed the father upstairs and down a corridor to the last bedroom on the right. It was a charming space, pink and trimmed with satin and lace, filled to the brim with toys and dolls. The room was a little girl's dream, and it was clear to Phryne that this was a child for whom no expense was spared.

There was nothing at all disturbed in the room, nothing to indicate that a child had been torn from the safety of her home except for the window hanging open, its pink satin dressing billowing despondently in the night air.

"Were the windows kept latched?" Jack asked Mr. Crossley-Scott, who seemed unable to cross the threshold into the room.

"I—I think so. We've always felt so safe here, it's possible that the children opened them while playing. But Giulietta should have checked them—Christ, no, _I _should have checked them. But I never thought—" His sentence was bitten off by a wave of grief, which he stifled with a clenched fist.

"You cannot blame yourself for feeling safe in your own home," said Phryne, trying to offer comfort where there was little to give.

A cursory examination of the room turned up nothing. The open window and empty bed were the only indications of a disturbance. Jack and Phryne looked together out of the window, examining the sheer drop to the ground. There were no balconies, no pipes or vines to climb on...how had someone climbed up, let alone climbed down bearing a sleeping child?

"We need to question the family and staff. We can examine the crime scene when the other officers arrive," Jack muttered to her, both of their heads still poking out of the window.

"Perhaps I should interview the nanny while you speak with the parents?" suggested Phryne.

"No," he replied simply. "Together."

Thus, a few moments later, Phryne had settled herself at a safe distance beside the inspector on the sofa facing the Crossley-Scotts, relinquishing control to him but poised to ask whichever of her own questions came to mind.

"When was the last time either of you saw your daughter?" Jack began steadily, his voice solemn yet gentle.

The girl's mother muffled a sob in her already-sodden handkerchief. Mr. Crossley-Scott answered, "At bedtime. Giulietta, our au pair, brought the children to us for a goodnight kiss, as is our ritual. Lily was tucked into bed promptly at seven o'clock, like every night."

"Tucked in by Giulietta?" Phryne cut in, to clarify.

It was the wrong thing to say, for Mrs. Crossley-Scott's crumpled and she let out a moan. "I didn't even tuck my own children in their beds. What kind of mother am I? What if we never see Lily again, and I didn't even put her in bed myself—"

Her husband cut her off by pressing her face gently to his chest. "Hush now, Mary, let's not get ahead of ourselves. And don't be foolish, you are a wonderful mother." He turned to Jack, "Might my wife retire upstairs? We will give the same answers anyway. She needs rest."

Jack nodded his consent and Mrs. Crossley-Scott was given into the care of a maid, who escorted the distraught woman out of the room.

"Yes," continued Mr. Crossley-Scott once his wife had gone. "Yes, Giulietta tucked all of the children in, as was routine."

"And when did you notice she was missing?" Jack asked.

"Our eldest, Henry, was awoken by a noise in Lily's room. She falls out of bed sometimes —" Mr. Crossley-Scott swallowed hard, forcing down a wave of emotion, "And Henry takes good care of his little sister. He went in to make sure Lily was all right. That's when he discovered her bed was empty."

"With your permission, we'll need to speak with Henry later on," Phryne said softly, trying to focus her mind with the myriad questions that where spinning about in her head.

"Of course."

"Have you noticed any strangers lurking around your family or house? Or have you hired any new staff recently?" Jack continued.

"No to both. Although Giulietta would be the one to ask about someone lurking. I'm at the factory most days and Mary has various projects that keep her occupied. If someone was hanging round, Giulietta would know."

Phryne catalogued the details in her mind. Absent parents, children raised by the nanny. Not at all unusual for an upper class family, making them an easy mark for a predator. In these large homes the nursery was generally placed far from the parents' suite, ensuring that a child crying in the night awoke the nanny, not its mother and father. It also meant fewer people to hear an intruder creeping through a child's window.

Jack asked a few more questions, collecting details about the family's habits and anyone who might have a motive to take their youngest child. But Phryne knew the truth just was well as Jack did. Lily had not been taken the aggrieved business partner or the mentally unstable aunt. She had been captured by a monster and the clock was ticking. Suddenly a week felt a very meager amount of time indeed.

Young Henry, a boy of eight, was next to be questioned. He was wretched over the loss of his youngest sister and couldn't seem to bring himself to look Jack or Phryne in the eyes as he answered their questions. "I heard a thump. I thought Lily had fallen from bed again," he said, his little face solemn. "I saw her bed was empty so I ran to wake Giulietta. But I should have looked out the window! I should have, I should have run to the window and looked, I might have seen who took her."

"No, Henry. It isn't your fault," Jack consoled the boy. "If he had seen you he might have hurt you. You did the right thing. If you had not gone in to check on her no one would have noticed her absence until morning. You gave us a good head start."

Henry nodded in acceptance but continued to look miserable.

After Henry it was a seemingly ceaseless line of staff to cross-examine, the first and most important of which was the au pair, Giulietta. Young, plain, dark-haired Giulietta had arrived from Naples six months ago and spoke passably good English. She was as distraught as Lily's mother over the abduction of the little girl.

"Little Lily, she went down to sleep all right. I read her a story and kissed her good night. I always, always make sure, keep the windows locked tight. Children fall from unlocked windows. Window was locked, I know I locked. _Always_."

"So the intruder not only climbed a flat wall but unlocked the windows," Jack muttered, mostly just to Phryne. "And you said you haven't noticed anyone lingering about, acting suspicious?"

"There is no one. Well, maybe not no one. One man, maybe, but I'm probably being silly…"

"Tell us, Giulietta, even something that seems unimportant can be vital," Phryne coaxed.

Giulietta sighed and furrowed her brow as she scoured her memory. "It was so small a thing. I took the children to the carnival. We walked home, and he noticed Lily drop a prize, a little stuffed toy she won. Stopped us and gave it back to her. It was just odd, I am thinking."

"What was odd about it?" asked Jack.

"He...he was odd. He smiled but—" she feigned a shiver, as if to demonstrate the feeling the man had given her. "I did not like him."

"Did he speak to Lily? Did he stop you for long?"

"No. Say only 'Little girl, you dropped your toy,' and then gone. Like I say...odd."

"Do you remember anything about him?" asked Phryne. "Anything at all?"

"Short. He had a hat on his head, I don't know the color of his hair. Oh! But I remember now. Here—" she drew a line with her finger from her nose to her upper lip, "A scar."

"Like a cleft lip that had been repaired?" asked Phryne with rising interest.

Giulietta nodded enthusiastically. "Yes, yes, like that. I think so."

It was better than nothing. The shiver that Giulietta had acted out in reference to this strange man made him a suspect just that quickly in Phryne's eyes. Any man that provoked that sort of feeling in such a brief encounter was worth looking into.

By the time the two of them had finished questioning Giulietta and the rest of the staff, the night sky was paling in deference to the rising sun. A fresh set of constables and inspectors had arrived to relieve them, and it was not a moment too soon. Jack, who had just passed his second night without sleep, looked practically ill and was swaying ever so slightly on his feet.

"I'll drive," said Phryne, and he didn't argue. "Come along, I'm taking you straight home. You'll have to give me directions."

"Can't go home," he muttered as he climbed into the car, his voice suffused with exhaustion. "There's too much to do."

"No arguments, Jack, I won't hear of it. You'll be no use to anyone until you get some rest. Look at you, you look like you've crawled out of an opium den. I'm taking you home, and that's final. Now. Where do you live?"

He grinned despite himself. "All this time and you don't even know where I lay my head at night."

She gave him teasingly reproachful look. "Tut-tut, Jack Robinson, it's not as if you ever invited me over."

"It's not exactly a place for entertaining," he admitted with a shrug.

She raised an eyebrow at him. "Right or left?"

Before long they had arrived on a lane of terraced houses, quite a bit finer than what she had pictured when she imagined his living space. "Park here. That's my garden level flat just there."

"Very nice, Jack. I thought you must live in some tragic boarding house full of mopey divorcées."

He lifted his chin in an exaggerated nod. "Thanks for that. What are you doing?" he asked as she got out of the car with him.

"What do you mean?" she replied, her face suspiciously straight.

He gave her a scolding look. "No need for you to come in, Miss Fisher, I'm quite capable of putting myself to bed."

Phryne had to swallow the retort that was just begging to be said—that he would enjoy being put to bed by _her_ much better—but she had sworn to make him sleep and seducing him was not in line with that goal. Besides, weary and distressed was not how she wanted to have Jack Robinson for the first time.

So she stowed her flirtatious instinct and attempted to sound stern instead. "I have absolutely no faith that you'll actually get into bed without my supervision. But don't be nervous, Jack. I do intend to make you _sleep_. I'll see you as far as your pajamas, then I'll leave you in peace."

He attempted a scowl at her, but it ended as more of a repressed smile. "_Nervous_. I'm not _nervous _of you_,_ Miss Fisher."

"Brilliant. Shall we go in?"

With a grunt he lead the way down to his front door, fumbling a bit with the lock but eventually gaining access. Phryne followed him inside, taking in her surroundings with great interest.

"You have a handsome home," she complimented him. And it was true. Jack was not much of a decorator, but he had filled his home with dignified furnishings of leather and wood, a few choice paintings adorning the oak-paneled walls. It made the space masculine, warm, comfortable. It was not a large flat by any means—there was a small eat-in kitchen and modest sitting room, with only one bedroom and washroom from what Phryne could tell. But she knew it was probably just enough space to make him happy.

One corner of his mouth quirked up as he fixed his inky blue eyes on her. "Such a tone of surprise, Miss Fisher."

There was a moment of charged silence while they regarded each other curiously. It might have been tonight. If not for their mutual emotional and physical exhaustion, there was little keeping her from having her way with him at long last. Even with those obstacles, the temptation was there. She was filled with a piquant little thrill just at the fact that they could, if they wanted to.

She bit the inside of her cheek, trying to clear the amorous cloud that had settled over her thoughts. "Off you go, then. Pajamas."

"Will you sing me a lullaby as well? Read me a bedtime story?" he taunted lightly.

"I'll read you the dictionary if you keep giving me cheek," she responded, arching an eyebrow at him.

He sighed resignedly and disappeared into his bedroom. There were a few bangs that made her nervous, not confident that he could even keep himself standing long enough to get undressed, but a few moments later he emerged, looking endearingly youthful in a set of blue-striped button-front pajamas.

"Jack," she said with gasp of delight. "You are _adorable_."

He gave that smile she loved so much, the one that made him look like a boy, as if he was doing everything he could to resist the urge to smile and failing miserably. "It's time for you to go home now, Miss Fisher."

"No, no, not until I see you under the covers." She really should go. She wasn't sure why she was lingering. Well, no, she took that back. She knew precisely why.

Obediently, Jack returned back to his bedroom and fell heavily into bed. With a silly grin on her face, Phryne tugged the covers up to his chin and pressed a soft kiss to his forehead. She willed positive, peaceful thoughts to flow from her lips to his mind, which was undoubtedly full of troubling things. "Sleep well, my sweet inspector," she whispered, dipping her head so that their mouths mere inches apart.

"I'll do what I can," he replied, looking for all the world as if he wanted nothing but to reach out and pull her to him. How nice it would be to shed her dress and climb into bed beside him in her slip, nestling close to his warmth while they both drifted off to sleep.

"Jack…"

He watched her for a long while, clearly fighting some sort of internal battle. But he waited until she started to walk away before tightening his hand about her wrist, preventing her departure.

His voice was almost inaudible as he murmured, "Stay, Phryne. Stay with me, can you?" He looked half ashamed as he said it, letting his eyes meet hers only to dart quickly away. "I don't think I'll be able to sleep, left alone with my thoughts."

His weary, yearning look would have been enough to melt her, but his reluctant plea clutched at her heart like a fist. She couldn't dream of denying him. Nor did she want to.

"Just to sleep," she clarified sternly.

"Honestly, Miss Fisher, do I look capable of anything else at the moment?"

So Phryne did precisely as she had contemplated only moments before, kicking off her shoes and shrugging out of her dress and crawling into bed beside Jack in nothing but her white silk slip. His arms were open, waiting for her, and he scooped up her body with his own, pulling her eagerly against his firm, warm chest and enfolding her snugly within his arms.

She gave a sigh of drowsy satisfaction, curling her fingers around his own. "Sweet dreams, Jack."

She got no response, for he was already completely asleep, his breathing slow and heavy against her back. Phryne gave a small shiver at the pleasure of being cradled in his large, strong limbs. It was only moments before she had joined him in sweet oblivion.

* * *

><p>Parting Note: Not sure how this chapter ended up being so damn long! Thanks for sticking with it! I hope you all will continue to let me know what you think, it's so incredibly helpful. Please feel free to point out anything you feel is out of character...I'm trying hard to stay true to Jack and Phryne but they're both pretty complex people! Any insight is welcomed. As always, thanks SO much for reading!<p> 


	6. Chapter 6

Jack wasn't sure who was the first to wake, but when he became aware of her stirring in his arms, he tucked her closer and whispered in her ear, "Good morning, Miss Fisher."

"Morning?" He could tell she was smiling, though she was facing away from him. "We've slept the whole day away, Jack. It's the middle of the night again."

He reached back to his night table and squinted at his fob watch in the muted moonlight. "Good God, it's half three! I have to get to the station, we've lost an entire day—"

She turned over and pressed against his shoulder, forcing him back down to his pillow. "You are not due back at the station until seven o'clock. Hugh telephoned yesterday, late in the afternoon. Thank goodness the telephone didn't wake you. He said the superintendent wanted you to recuperate before you returned to the case."

"Thank goodness it didn't—? I should have been back hours ago, I cannot believe—"

"Now just calm down, Jack. They have half the force on this case, according to Hugh, and the superintendent wants you in tip-top shape before you return to take over. Another hour of rest will do you good. I fear it will be a scarce commodity in the days to come."

Jack was still uneasy but allowed her to soothingly stroke his face, eventually settling back down beside her. He would regret being such a layabout later on, but it felt too good to be in bed next to her and the dread of what was to come in the Crossley-Scott case allowed him to justify just one more hour of rest, as Phryne had insisted. He knew it might be days before he found his way back to a bed.

They lay quietly together until Jack gave in to himself, reaching over to re-spoon her, his arm curling around her as his legs bent to gather her up again. Anxious thoughts of what had happened—what _was_ happening between the two of them began to override his consternation about staying in bed. The comfort and familiarity he had felt with her before, in his haze of distress and exhaustion, had been shaken somewhat now that he had a few hours of sleep to clear his mind. Now his inhibitions started to creep steadily back, confusing the bliss he had awoken with. Had he made a mistake? Had he allowed his mental and physical weakness to obscure the very real reasons he had for maintaining his distance from her? He lay quietly for several thoughtful moments, simply listening to her breathing and trying to understand what they were to each other now.

"What are we doing here, Phryne?" he asked finally, hoping to pass off his vulnerability as inquisitiveness. He doubted she would be fooled.

She turned back over to face him, giving him a sleepy, cat-like grin. "Why, my dear man, we would appear to be canoodling."

His face remained serious. "No, I mean, what are we _doing_?"

Phryne's lovely smile widened and she reached up to trace his eyebrows with a sly finger. "What we have always done, Jack. Just with more...touching."

"What I'm asking is…" It was so difficult to say the words out loud. He feared the answer too much. "I want to know if...please, you must—tell me I am more than just another man to warm your bed. That is, not to say that...that you entertain _a lot _of—and of course not that there's anything wrong with—"

Her warm lips put a stop to his clumsy queries, pressing hard and sweet against his own which, he was embarrassed to admit, were trembling slightly. He kissed her back with open-mouthed hunger, so very weary of having to restrain himself around her.

When she pulled away, her voice was like smoke and honey. "First of all, I am the one warming _your_ bed, Jack Robinson, and only in the most literal sense. Do not give yourself credit for acts you have not yet committed. Secondly, I dearly hope you do not believe me capable of such ignominious cruelty as to try to seduce you when you are at your weakest only to throw you over the moment another man catches my eye. I pray you don't think so little of me. And thirdly," she carried on over his protests, "I do not know precisely what we are doing yet, Jack. But there is nothing 'just another' about you. I want only you, and have wanted only you for some time now. I cannot make promises about forever. You know me better than that, and I won't give you empty assurances. But the way I feel about you—it is unlike anything I have felt for any other man. I'm willing to pursue that, to see where it leads. So long as you are."

Jack didn't hesitate. He didn't need to. "I am. I'm terrified, Phryne, but it doesn't make me any less willing." He swallowed, reaching out to brush a strand of dark hair off her cheek. "And don't concern yourself about forever. My marriage taught me that forever is a charming notion, but rarely reality."

Her brow furrowed and she scooted closer to him so that their foreheads and noses were pressed together. "Right now is our forever, Jack. Let's make it last as long as we can. I don't know about you, but it's making me blissfully happy at the moment."

The corners of his mouth curved upwards. "Yes, Miss Fisher. That you bring me pure, utter happiness is something I will not try to deny."

Happiness really seemed a flimsy, stupid word. The feeling in his chest was as if he had swallowed a piece of the sun itself, its heat and vitality expanding within him until he felt his ribs would crack. Meanwhile something fierce squeezed tightly at his heart, fastening him to her as if with invisible irons. The fear of heartbreak was no longer strong enough to keep him away from her. He had long since passed over that threshold. He would have her as long as she would allow it, and no doubt love her even longer.

But of course, these were not things he was ready to say out loud to Phryne. Luckily, she was not the sort of woman to require sweet nothings from him to bolster her confidence.

Something suddenly occurred to Jack as he studied her enchanting features, thinking back over their earlier conversation. "Wait just a moment. You answered my telephone?"

"Only the once, when Hugh rang," she admitted innocently.

He regarded her with exasperation. "Yes, and what sort of conclusions do you think Hugh is drawing about us right now?"

There was that cat-like grin again. "Hopefully the right ones."

"Phryne!"

"What, Jack? Surely you know Hugh will be discreet. He worships you, he would never do anything to damage your reputation. Besides, you spend quite a lot of time at my house, what is it to anyone if I visit yours?"

"You know perfectly well," he said impatiently. "At your house we are attended by Dot, Jane, Mr. Butler, often Cec and Bert, and whichever other people you have parading through on that particular day. We are never truly alone there. Here, however...here we are very much alone."

"Yes, we are," she agreed, a sudden heat flaring in her eyes. Beneath the covers one of her bare feet, surprisingly warm, began to caress its way up his calf.

"Wait, Phryne," he protested sternly, panicking a little. "Not like this. I'm not—"

She only laughed at him. "Settle down, Jack, I'm not going to make a man of you just yet. Why don't you go wash and I'll try to conjure up something passable for breakfast? Keeping busy will curtail our libidos." And with a kiss on his cheek she slipped out of bed. Jack allowed himself only a brief glance at the way her silk garment just barely covered her buttocks. The only thing for his libido right now would be a very cold shower.

A while later, after he was clean and dressed, with only a few lingering shivers from his icy ablutions, Jack found that there was indeed a reason Mr. Butler had a job. Phryne had cobbled together some runny eggs and overcooked slices of bacon, arranging them haphazardly on the plate she set before him.

"Sorry it's a bit of a mess," she apologized laughingly, not sounding the least bit sorry.

Jack, who could honestly not remember his last meal, was too hungry to care. "Thank you, Miss Fisher. I can see we have a chef in the making here."

She gave him a playful push on the shoulder and sat down to her own meal. "So who are your suspects, Jack? Do you have any? Do we even know where to start?"

Jack took a bite of bacon and found himself praying his teeth wouldn't crack. "I'm sure they are already combing the records for similar crimes. We'll see where they are when we get in, but I don't think there's much to gain from it. If this had happened anywhere else in Australia within the last several years, every policeman in the country would know about it. It is not the sort of crime that stays quiet. We should be getting an autopsy report back sometime today, so that may get us somewhere."

"Was there anything distinct about Marjorie's injuries? Anything to indicate a ritual or particular obsession of the killer's?"

Jack frowned at her. "Phryne, I still feel as I did before—you are restricted to Lily Crossley-Scott's disappearance. I don't want you anywhere near the Marjorie Hyde investigation."

Phryne's eyes narrowed at him; she was no doubt gearing up for battle. "That's nonsense, Jack, and you know it. I will be much more useful in drawing conclusions about Lily's abduction if I know what became of the victim who preceded her"

"What happened to Marjorie isn't pertinent to Lily's investigation. All you need to know is that she died," argued Jack, already knowing she would wear him down eventually, it was only a matter of time.

"Oh what hogwash, Jack! The way Marjorie died has everything to do with how you'll go about looking for your perpetrator! If it was a ritual killing, you will be looking at a completely different suspect than if the crime was sexually motivated. You have to give me _some_ details about Marjorie or I'm useless to you."

Jack pressed his lips together firmly and regarded her. "Marjorie was not sexually assaulted, if that clears anything up for you. But her injuries were extensive. And she appeared to have lost quite a lot of blood. Most of it, in fact. You'll get no more out of me, so do not ask."

This seemed to be enough to get her to concede the point. But the spark of intense interest in her eyes had been set ablaze, just that quickly. "So a ritual is a good possibility. Do we know of any Satanists in the area?"

Jack passed an impatient hand over his mouth. "Satanists, Phryne? Listen to yourself."

"Or were there any signs of cannibalism? There was this ghastly American serial killer called—"

"The Americans can keep their serial killers, Miss Fisher. It does us no good to get ahead of ourselves thinking we have a Satanic cannibal on the loose. We must follow the evidence we _have_. Without the autopsy report all we can really say with conviction is that Marjorie Hyde was murdered."

"You don't have to patronize me, Jack, I know the procedure perfectly well. I was just tossing out ideas," she looked a tiny bit miffed at his censure. "In any case, are you going to try and track down the man with the cleft lip Giulietta mentioned?"

Jack shrugged. "Yes, I suppose I ought. Come on, let's get down to the station, we can arrange to set her up with a sketch artist, see how far we get with that."

It was still very early when they pulled up to City South Police Station, hardly five o' clock, and only the night shift officers were milling about. However, Jack's telephone had begun to ring almost they moment the two of them stepped into the office. As Jack answered it Phryne was picking up her gloves from the floor where he had tossed them two nights before. He couldn't help but smile at the mischievous little grin on her face.

"City South Police Station," Jack said habitually into the receiver.

Dot's voice came through the line tense and agitated. "Oh thank goodness. Inspector, it's Dot. Please, is Miss Fisher with you? Hugh said she answered your home telephone yesterday but I couldn't get through to anyone. Is she there?"

So much for Hugh keeping quiet. "She's here, Dot. I'll pass you to her, one moment." He lowered the receiver from his ear and held it out to Phryne. "It's Dot for you, Miss Fisher."

She took the phone and listened intently as Dot described whatever calamity had lately transpired at the Fisher residence. Jack found himself simply gazing at her, drinking in the smooth, sculpted planes of her face and considering how lovely she looked even in the rumpled pink frock she had been in for nearly two days now. In fact, she looked downright unkempt, something one could rarely say of the Honorable Miss Phryne Fisher. He found it wickedly endearing. It would be very difficult indeed to keep from taking her right there on his desk.

Moments later she had carefully cradled the receiver, her face somber and oddly distant.

"Everything all right?" he asked, realizing he had been too busy looking at her to eavesdrop on the conversation.

"I'm not quite sure, Inspector. I fear I'll have to leave you for a bit and attend to matters at home. You'll keep me abreast of all developments, I hope? I'll return as soon as possible."

He reached for her hand before she could hurry away. "Phryne, tell me what it is. You look concerned."

She shrugged, clearly trying to minimize whatever news she had received. "Well, I suppose we don't know for certain yet," she murmured, her voice unusually flat. "But Dot seems to think that, well...it seems...she has reason to believe that our Jane has fallen pregnant."

* * *

><p>Gah! I may have lost it. LOL. We'll see where this goes! Thanks for sticking with the story, and as always, let me know what you think! You guys are the coolest!<p> 


	7. Chapter 7

Phryne drove home a bit faster than she should have, burdened with guilt over Dot's news. This was Phryne's fault. Months ago, after Jane's brief flirtation with Kip, Dot had insisted it was time to talk birds and bees with the girl. Phryne, certain that Jane's less than idyllic past had likely taught her far more about the facts of life than Dot knew herself, had happily passed on the responsibility to her companion. Dot had been eager to volunteer, plainly of the mind that her mistress was hardly a leading scholar on keeping one's legs closed until marriage. "I'll be happy to fill her in, Miss. My mother had many excellent things to say on the topic, and I'm glad to pass those bits of wisdom on to Jane. Just leave it to me," Dot had told her at the time.

Phryne had thought it an excellent arrangement. Let Dot feed Jane the company line on chastity while Jane was still just a girl. When she became a woman, ready to go out and experience the world—that was when Phryne had intended to step in and instruct her about what really went on between men and women in bed.

Apparently, that lesson had not come soon enough.

_She's much too young to be pregnant_, Phryne protested to herself. _Surely Dot is mistaken._

But Jane would hardly be the first girl to fall pregnant at fifteen, and Phryne viciously admonished herself for being such a fool.

She was greeted at the door by Dot, who was wringing her hands in worry. "Miss Fisher, thank goodness. Jane is upstairs. She's very upset."

"Let's get the whole story then, shall we?" replied Phryne, setting her teeth as she anticipated the uncomfortable conversation awaiting all of them. "Why did these news come so early in the morning, Dot?"

"Well, I got it out of her late last night," admitted Dot. "She came home early from school and had shut herself in her room all afternoon and it only took a little coaxing before it all spilled out. I tried to ring you at the station but Hugh said you had answered the Inspector's home telephone earlier and he assumed you were still with him." Dot pursed her lips to silently punctuate that particular statement, but had the grace not to comment further. "I tried the Inspector's residence but no one answered. So I waited until early this morning when there was a chance of the two of you being back at the station. Hugh says they've been working round the clock on this case."

Phryne gave Dot an apologetic nod. "Yes, they have. I'm sorry I wasn't present when I should have been."

Dot gave Phryne a comforting little rub on the arm. "Think nothing of it, Miss. You're here now."

Phryne could hear Jane's pitiful sobs from the hallway. They entered her room to find Jane face down on the bed, her arms curled up at her sides as she bawled into the pillow. The faithful Mr. Butler was beside her, his hand on her arm as he uttered soothing things.

"Look, Jane, dear, there's Miss Fisher now," Mr. Butler said, giving Jane a kind pat on the shoulder. He looked rather relieved indeed at Phryne's arrival.

"Oooohhhh, Miss Fisher!" wailed Jane, sitting up on the bed and gathering herself into a piteous little ball. "I'm t-too young be a m-muuuum!"

"Er. I'll just go then, shall I?" muttered Mr. Butler, making a judicious retreat.

Phryne settled herself beside the wretched girl, wrapping her tightly in a bracing hug. "Don't fret, Jane. We'll sort this out together."

Words poured out of Jane like fruit preserves, chunks of meaning glopped together by sniffles and tears. "Please don't be cross with me. I don't know how it happened. How could it have happened?" Jane began tearfully, wiping away strands of hair that had stuck to her cheeks. "I was behind the gymnasium with Billy Bishop last week but I slapped his hands when he tried to get under my skirt. I felt his, you know, _thing_—only through his _trousers_,Dot, keep your hair on—but I didn't know that could get me _pregnant,_" she sniffled, rolling her eyes despite herself at Dot's continuing horror."Emily Van Houte has done loads more than that and _she's _not pregnant! Besides, Catherine Lambert says you can't get pregnant the first time, I don't know if she means the first time you kiss a boy or the first time he touches your bosoms, but I've only done the former so I should be safe, shouldn't I?"

Phryne stared at her ward, processing. For one thing, whatever speech Dot had given had not covered _nearly_ enough ground. Phryne made a mental note to pull Dot aside and discover precisely what she had told Jane, as it seemed Dot might be unclear on some things herself. It also appeared to Phryne that the student supervision at Warleigh Grammar was wanting indeed if Jane had found time during the day to meet a boy on school grounds.

But of one thing she felt confident, to her great relief—the possibility that Jane was actually pregnant was dwindling by the second.

Phryne tucked a strand of hair behind Jane's ear and took her hand gently. "Jane, dear, what gave you the idea that you could be pregnant in the first place? Was your monthly late?"

"My what?" Jane's confusion stemmed the flow of her tears for a moment.

"Your monthly visitor. Your menstrual cycle, dear." Phryne did not have to look at Dot to know precisely the shade of red her face had turned.

Jane shook her head. "Oh, that. No, Miss, I've never been, er, visited before."

Phryne was completely ashamed that she didn't even know this about her own ward. So many assumptions she had made along the way; she had taken comfort that Jane was still a child and that she would eventually seek Phryne out when such knowledge was needed.

As Jack had warned when she had taken Jane on, this child-rearing scheme was no easy task.

"So what on earth made you think you were pregnant?" Dot spoke up for the first time, looking slightly irked that she had raised a fuss—one of her least favorite things to do—over nothing.

"The school nurse," Jane said, now looking skeptical herself. "He's actually a real doctor, Dr. Jones. He was filling in for Nurse Childs. I had a stomachache yesterday and my teacher sent me to the clinic. Dr. Jones told me straightaway that I was pregnant, beyond any doubt. He said he could tell just by looking at my face."

_Doctor my foot_, thought Phryne. It sounded like a made-up name. And not a particularly imaginative one at that. He was certainly no doctor, giving out _that_ sort of mad diagnosis. "Did he indeed?" she murmured distantly, keeping her face calm for Jane while anger and alarm billowed inside of her.

"Yes. He told me that the police would arrest me for having fallen pregnant at so young an age, but that he could smuggle me away to the nuns if I came with him at that very moment."

Phryne felt the color drain from her face. "And what did you say to that?"

"I told him there was not a single chance in hell! I said my guardian is a lady detective and that I am particular friends with two policemen and that they don't arrest people for being pregnant. Then he tried to make me take some medicine so I left in a hurry and came straight home. You think he was lying Miss Fisher? Do you think I'm not really pregnant?"

"To quote you, my darling, I'd say there isn't a single chance in hell. Poor sweet girl, I'm sorry he put you through that." Phryne felt something twist in her stomach. This Dr. Jones fellow sounded like a predator, and she was willing to wager that he would be gone without a trace by the time she got up to the school. "Do you remember anything else about him? How long has he been filling in for Nurse Childs?"

Jane was beaming with relief, swiping cheerfully at the last of her tears. "Today was the second day. The principal was ever so thrilled to have a real doctor on hand."

"And what did he look like?"

Jane narrowed her eyes, trying to recall the details. "Just regular, really. He's a little man. Shorter than you, Miss Fisher. He's older but not _old. _He had dark hair with lots of pomade, it was so slick it looked like shoe shine."

Phryne's heart was pounding. "That's all? Was there anything to distinguish him? Did he have any strange features?"

A light went on in Jane's eyes. "Oh yes, yes he did, now you mention it. He had this thin little scar through his lip that pulled it up a bit, as if in a snarl." She pushed up her top lip with her finger to demonstrate.

Phryne stared frozenly at Jane for several moments.

"Miss? Are you all right? You're pale," said Dot, leaning forward to place a hand on Phryne's shoulder.

Phryne unfroze at Dot's touch and sprang to her feet, trying to swallow the tremorous fear that had wrapped itself around her ribs. "I have to telephone Jack. Make Jane a very large hot chocolate if you would, Dot, I'm afraid I'm going out again."

As Phryne hurried out of the room, she could hear Dot's soft but stern voice behind her. "Now, Jane, tell me more about this Billy Bishop…"

She would sit down with both of them later and make sure the record was set straight on _precisely_ where babies came from, but for now, she had a monster to catch.

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><p>By the time Phryne and Jack had reached Warleigh Grammar Dr. Jones was nowhere to be found. Just as Phryne had feared.<p>

Jack sent Hugh down to the school clinic to see if any evidence had been left behind and brought Phryne with him to question the administration.

"He was supposed to be here promptly at eight o'clock, but he has not appeared as of yet," wailed Mr. Busby, the principal, through his bushy gray handlebar mustache. His face was crumpled with agitation at the sudden police presence in his fine school, and he didn't quite seem certain on what to do with his hands. "Come, Inspector, Miss Fisher, into my office, please. The very last thing I need is students telling their parents that Jane's eccentric guardian and her police friends were crawling all over school today."

Phryne raised her eyebrows at Jack for being called "eccentric" and his eyes twinkled as he returned her look with a suppressed grin. They followed Mr. Busby into his well-appointed office, both taking seats in the chintz armchairs opposite the massive oak desk. The arrangement of the chairs and imposing desk were meant to intimidate naughty children who found themselves there, and made Phryne think back to her many visits to the principal's when she was at school. But today, she would be the one doing the intimidating.

"I am not just here as Jane's guardian, Mr. Busby," Phryne informed the man, handing him her card.

"Lady detective?" he asked with a small scoff, examining the card before dropping it into the bin. "How fanciful, Miss Fisher."

Phryne didn't bother to argue with him. She preferred to demonstrate her abilities until those who doubted her could not help but admit she excelled at her profession. It worked out better that way, and she spent far less energy quarreling with fools who believed what was between one's legs had anything at all to do with her mental faculties.

But she would not deny she was here to protect Jane's interests as well. "Perhaps you could explain to us, Mr. Busby, how you came to admit a man of such questionable medical experience into the school to administer care to students? You might add how my Jane managed to sneak off to be with a boy during school hours. I do believe looking after her is one of the things I pay you for."

"Miss Fisher, if we could _please_ leave personal matters for later," Jack chastised quietly, tucking his chin so as to affix her with that reproachful look he seemed to have invented especially for her.

Phryne turned her head away impatiently and surrendered control of the conversation with a flippant wave of her hand. All of her questions had to do with personal matters, so she would allow Jack to get his information first.

Jack pushed forward. "Mr. Busby, when did this Dr. Jones character first approach you about filling in for Nurse Childs?"

The questioning was about as fruitful as Phryne could have expected. Dr. Jones had appeared as if by magic with what would turn out to be falsified credentials and references. Nothing had seemed amiss. No one had complained until Jane.

"Jane wasn't meant to be heard from at all," Phryne pointed out. "Good thing she has some sense. A child only slightly more naive might have eagerly let him 'smuggle her to the nuns,' as he put it. And then done God only knows what with her."

"Thank you, Miss Fisher," Jack acknowledged edgily. "Mr. Busby, have any of your students gone missing in the days since Dr. Jones started work?"

"Missing? No, no, of course not, everyone is accounted for."

"How about illness?" suggested Phryne, "Was anyone out of school in the last two days from illness?"

"I'm sure there will have been one or two, but—"

Before Phryne could continue her tirade, Jack cut in. "We'll need a list of all students out of school in the days since Dr. Jones began work, including today. We must make sure they're all accounted for."

"Good God," moaned Mr. Busby. "You mustn't...you cannot think...poor girls, I cannot stand it, if anything happened to them because I brought that man into the school…"

For the first time, Phryne pitied him. It meant something, that his primary concern was for his students, even though the school's reputation was very much at stake.

"Let me get that list for you, I'll only be a moment," muttered Mr. Busby, his mustache trembling.

Once he was gone, Jack gave her a very pointed look. "Miss Fisher, I wish you could tell me," he sighed, "How these cases always find a way of showing up at your front door."

"I wish I could tell you that too," she agreed. "It is growing tiresome. I don't like to think that the people I love are in danger because of me."

Jack shook his head, reaching out to brush his fingers over the back of her hand. "Honestly, there are just so many strange coincidences. It would simply seem that crime is just as attracted to you as I am."

Phryne, who hadn't blushed since she was out of pigtails, felt her cheeks growing pleasantly pink at his words. It was the first time he had admitted his feelings so openly. "So romantic, Jack," she quipped, covering her warm feelings with a healthy dose of sarcasm.

The corner of his mouth quirked up in a lopsided grin. "But in all seriousness, Phryne. You cannot blame yourself. These thing just have a way of finding their way to you. But the people you love are not helpless. It's _because_ of you that they know how to handle themselves in difficult situations, and it was that, more than luck or any other reason, that Jane got away safely. She knew that what that doctor fellow was telling her didn't seem right and got herself away from him. If not for her experiences with you she may not have been so perceptive."

Phryne did her best to take comfort in his words. Logically, she knew it could not possibly be her fault that the man with the scar had chosen Warleigh Grammar to seek out victims.

"We thought he was after little girls, Jack. What does it mean, that he's stalking teenagers now?"

Jack nodded, indicating the same question had been plaguing him. "We can't even be certain it is the same man. We must wait until we get the sketches back from Giulietta and Jane."

"It's the same man, Jack. I can feel it in the pit of my stomach. It would be too absurd of a coincidence for there to be two small, scar-lipped men going after young girls," Phryne argued. Though she was replete with concern over what had happened, as well as what had _nearly_ happened, to Jane, that feeling of exuberant purpose that always filled her during a good case was coursing through her veins now, making her mind sharper and her heart beat faster. They would get down to the bottom of this, she and Jack, no matter what it took. She just hoped they could manage it before the body count increased.

Mr. Busby returned with the list of students who had been out of school and Jack and Phryne took their leave, exiting the office just in time to see Aunt Prudence doddering down the hall with one of the members of the board.

Phryne couldn't believe the timing. "Oh, no, Jack. What are we going to tell her?"

Before Jack could answer, they had been spotted. "Phryne? Inspector? What are you doing here?" shrilled the old matron, her features arranged in that characteristic look of indignation. Her pace quickened and she reached the solemn pair before there was any chance of arranging a good cover story.

"Aunt P! What a nice surprise!" Phryne stalled, reaching over to peck her Aunt on the cheek. "What are you doing here?"

"Just having a chat with the board. But I believe I asked you that question first, my girl. I'm always happy to see you inspector, but I'm not particularly happy to see you _here_."

"Just a little mix-up with a dodgy staff member," said Jack smoothly, giving Prudence a warm and gentlemanly smile. "It's all been cleared up now."

Phryne knew that would not be nearly enough to satisfy her aunt. "It's an ongoing investigation, Aunt Prudence, and I'm afraid we cannot share everything with you right now. We'll fill you in when we can."

This did not please the old woman at all. "You cannot tell me? In my grandniece's own school there are illegal activities going on and you don't even have the decency to—"

"Phryne's correct, actually, Mrs. Stanley," interrupted Jack, knowing better than to let old dame gear up. "It is police business and we cannot elaborate until we know more. I do appreciate your discretion in the matter."

The finality and authority in his voice forced Aunt Prudence to back down. But she was not finished battling yet. "Well. Since both of you are here, there's another topic we should discuss. I heard it on good authority that you spent an indecent amount of time alone at the inspector's lodgings yesterday. Pray tell me I am mistaken." She affixed both of them with a reproving glower.

Phryne's eyes widened. How had word traveled so fast? Certainly Hugh had not said anything to anyone other than Dot, and Dot was the soul of discretion. "Aunt P, I will never know where you get your information from—"

"I always protect my sources," Prudence cut in, folding her hands together beneath her large bosom.

"—but it really isn't any of your business where I spend my time. Now if you will excuse us." Phryne knew she had been rude, but she was too vexed by her aunt's determination to pass judgement to care very much.

Aunt Prudence gave a little huff. "Phryne, I know I have said it so many times before, but you will hear me say it again. You should take better care with your reputation. I know you like to push boundaries, my dear, but your improprieties reflect upon Jane now. You would do well to remember that in the future."

Phryne new that Aunt Prudence was just as—if not more—concerned about her own reputation than Jane's, but she couldn't deny that her aunt had a little bit of a point. Especially considering what had just transpired with Jane.

Sensing that Phryne did not have a retort, Jack stepped in. "Mrs. Stanley, I apologize, but we really must be going. There's much to be done. It was nice to see you again."

Aunt Prudence grumbled a few words in forfeit and turned to rejoin her board member friend.

"Come with me," said Phryne, a sudden urgency overtaking her as she slipped her hand into the crook of Jack's arm and and pulled him out the front doors of the school. "We'll collect Hugh in a moment."

However, instead of directing them back towards the car, Phryne marched them instead towards the gymnasium. If it was a suitable location for Jane to meet Billy Bishop and become acquainted with his "thing" it would serve well for Phryne's purposes.

"Phryne, where are we—"

"You'll see," she bit back, her pace becoming even more dogged. Once they had slipped safely behind the gym, Phryne put her hands on his shoulders and pushed him, with perhaps a little more force than necessary, up against the wall.

Her lips rushed to meet his, all of her feelings of anger, desire, tension, and worry flowing into the kiss as she slipped her tongue hotly into his mouth.

Jack was only thrown off guard for a moment before he had one strong arm wrapped firmly around her waist, pulling her up to him hard, his other hand fisting in her short hair.

Her hands could not seem to settle on one place. She sucked his lower lip into her mouth as her fingers trailed over his neck, shoulders, chest. She clumsily undid the buttons to his waistcoat, her hands rushing inside and delighting in the extra heat she found trapped against his ribs.

"Bugger Aunt Prudence and her antiquated ideas about propriety," Phryne hissed against his mouth, drawing a sharp gasp from him as her right hand drifted down to his delicious buttocks. "I don't give a damn what she says. I want you so badly, Jack, sometimes I cannot even think for wanting you. If that woman and her beloved society cannot handle that then bugger all of them."

He gave her grin of lust and amusement and pulled her lips back to his, taking his own turn exploring her mouth with his tongue. He dragged a slow, curling caress over the roof of her mouth and she suddenly found it very difficult to stand. It didn't matter though, not with the way he was holding her so ruthlessly against him. She moaned his name as his mouth slid to her jaw and she felt his teeth graze her earlobe.

She was wearing trousers again and he seemed frustrated that there was no skirt to get his hands beneath. He made do with spreading one of his large hands over her bottom and squeezing her firmly. Phryne wasn't sure how much more of this she could take, and somehow felt that, while being taken up against the wall of a gymnasium thrilled her riotously, to do so at Jane's school would not exactly be in the best taste.

Jack saved her the trouble, though, pulling back from her reluctantly to say, "We have to get back. We have so much to do." He didn't seem convinced by his own words, and Phryne knew it would have only taken a little bit of coaxing to get him to stay.

"You're right. The sketch artist should be finishing up by now. We need to see what we're up against."

They stood quietly for several moments, still in each other's arms, trying to catch their breaths and find their way back down from the clouds.

"I know you were just proving a point," Jack murmured to her, gazing at her with a look in his eyes that she hadn't seen before. "To Mrs. Stanley as well as yourself. Just know that if there are any other points that need proving, I hope you'll seek me out again."

Phryne laughed, feeling unreasonably euphoric as she slipped her hand in his own. She led him the long way around the gym so they could walk together in private for a few more moments. She used her other hand to try and sort out her love-tousled hair. She was feeling unusually shy, and gave his hand a warm squeeze. "You'll be glad to know, Jack...when it comes to proving points—and most other things, really—you're the only man I need."

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><p>Please continue letting me know what you think! Y'all are the greatest, thanks for reading!<p> 


	8. Chapter 8

Jack had his hands shoved deeply into his pockets as he watched Phryne walking in front of him, keeping a few paces back so as not to give away their small indiscretion behind the gymnasium. Belatedly, he noticed his waistcoat was still unbuttoned and he rushed to restore himself to a respectable state.

Her power over him scared him a little. A lot, if he was honest. Jack Robinson was not at all the type of man to indulge in a semi-public encounter with a woman, _especially_ not while on duty. And yet, just then, he had not thought twice. She had needed him and he had needed her and he had not thought twice.

Only now, watching her join merrily up with Hugh at the front of the school, did he truly assess his behavior. She was dangerous for him. This was not news, really. He had always known how dangerous. Not only to his heart but to his habits. Despite his attraction to her, Jack preferred a quiet life. With all the excitement that came with being a policeman, he really didn't need any extra stimulation while at home. It was one of the reasons why he and Rosie had not got on towards the end.

After the war, Jack treasured the comforts of home more than ever, valued every bit of peace and quiet and privacy he could get. Rosie, on the other hand, committed them to every soirée, ball, and party in Melbourne and beyond. He had played along at first, standing quietly at her side while she danced and socialized, not noticing for a moment her husband's discomfort. Before long, however, this had become tiresome to Jack and he had simply stopped going. Though she had barely acknowledged him when he did go, for him not to go at all was unacceptable and she made sure he knew it. It had been one of many things that had led to their downfall.

Would it be the same with Phryne? Would she expect him to always keep up with her? Though her energy and vitality were among the things about her that most attracted him, he didn't think he could match her on a daily basis. He spent his energies in his police work, and when the day was done he was happiest when he could simply go home and recline on the sofa with the newspaper or a good book.

The attraction and desire between them was undeniable. And their friendship was strong. But the jury was still out on whether a long-term romantic relationship would be possible between them. Or if Phryne would even be able to sustain a monogamous partnership for that long.

And a fling was not what Jack was after with Phryne Fisher. He valued their friendship too much. What was more, he did not think their professional relationship, which he valued very much as well, would be able to survive a fling. Not on his end anyway. His emotions were too invested. He mentally berated himself, thinking belatedly that he would have been better off keeping his hands and lips to himself.

But such had been the circle he had followed around and around in his head since he had first come to terms with his attraction to her. Only this time, instead of reaching the conclusion that it would never work between them, he had acted on his impulses. And now he had no choice but to see where that led.

Strangely, it filled him with excitement and hope rather than dread and doom. There was something here, and there was a chance, even if it was but a small one, that they could make it.

But there was a predator on the loose and at least one young victim in very real danger. This was not the time to be fretting about his love life.

"Let's stop by your home, Miss Fisher, and see what Jane's progress is with the sketch artist," he suggested as the three of them climbed into the police motor. "Perhaps while we're there, Hugh can borrow your telephone to check in on the young ladies who have been missing from school."

"Yes, of course," replied Phryne, straightening her cloche. "We'll need to put feet on the ground with that sketch as soon as we can."

They were back at Phryne's front door before long. They entered to the aroma of lemon and sugar warming in the oven. "Delightful," sighed Phryne. "Mr. Butler must be making lemon cakes." She relieved them of their hats and coats and hung them up along with her own.

"I'd not turn down a lemon cake, or five," smiled Hugh as they entered the drawing room, where Dot and Jane sat across from the sketch artist, who was still working away at the face of a man who at this point looked not unlike the only portrait Jack had ever seen of the poet Edgar Allan Poe.

"We're finishing up here," said the sketch artist, who was called Laurent. The man had studied with great painters in Paris, but had never truly managed to come into his own as an artist. His abilities, however, lent themselves well to police work, and he had contributed to the capture of no small number of criminals. "Jane has been an excellent witness."

"If you will sit with them and let us know when they're finished," Phryne said to Hugh, giving the young constable a squeeze on the elbow. "I have something to discuss with your inspector in the garden."

_Oh dear,_ thought Jack. Was she looking to continue their earlier encounter? Behind a deserted gymnasium was one thing, but in Phryne's garden, where anyone could be expected to look out a window at any moment, he did not dare lay hands on her. No matter how much he may want to.

Nonetheless he allowed himself to be led to the back of the house and out into the lush Eden which Phryne had cultivated—or, at least, had paid to be cultivated—in the yard behind the mansion. It was filled with both native Australian flora, such as eucalyptus and climbing clematis, as well as exotic imported blooms—graceful white tuberose, bold pink peonies, and delicate cream-flowered osmanthus hedges.

Jack inhaled the crisp, potent scent of earth and herbage as he waited for Phryne to announce her purpose.

"I just thought I'd hear your thoughts on what we should tell everyone. About us, I mean," she said with a very un-Phrynelike timidity. "Dot and Hugh already have their suspicions, and I don't want anyone to get the wrong idea."

"The wrong idea, indeed," Jack laughed. "You want to talk about this now? When we're trying to catch a killer?"

"Don't laugh," she scolded, giggling a little herself. "Who knows when there will be a good time to talk about it? And in the mean time, I don't want the people we care about to be anxious about what is going on between us. As long as we have a moment of free time, waiting for the sketch to be completed, we might as well put a strategy together."

"Well," said Jack, a smile in his eyes. "We could tell them I'm courting you."

"Don't make me laugh, Jack! They wouldn't believe it for a second."

He raised an eyebrow and flashed her another grin. "What will we say then? That we're lovers?"

"I think we should tell them we are exploring the boundaries of our relationship and that they should not worry themselves. We will let them know if anything develops."

He smirked at her. "That sounds complicated. It will concern them even more."

"By all means, then, if you have any better suggestions?" she said with a touch of exasperation.

He grasped her wrist and nudged her behind a particularly tall osmanthus shrub. Once adequately hidden, he pulled her close and pressed a kiss to her fringe. "I think we'll only complicate things more by trying to put a name to things before we even know ourselves what our intentions are. Let them wonder. When we're ready to make things official, if we ever are, that is...then we'll sit everyone down and have a grand talk. Otherwise let things continue as usual. All they know for sure is that you spent time at my house. Knowing how little you care for propriety, they will eventually pass this off as Phryne being Phryne and assume everything is as it has always been. All of this is so new, I feel as if we would be preempting things by sitting them all down for an extravagant conversation. Let's let it marinate for a bit, and then we'll decide."

She nodded in agreement, taking a step closer to him and tucking her head beneath his chin. They stood like that for several quiet moments, listening to the sounds of the birds chattering around them and breathing in the diverse garden aromas. Jack felt pleasantly weak at the sensation of her heart beating against him, the faint vibration just discernible through their layers of clothes.

"I do have one question for you, Jack," she murmured, lifting her chin to speak against his ear, grasping the lapels of his coat in her fingers. "Just a little something that has been bothering me."

"Yes?" he invited her to continue, somewhat nervously.

"First, I'll admit to eavesdropping on this one, an activity that should not surprise you, but...a while back, when Mrs. Bolkonsky advised you to pursue your greatest passion, which she indicated was close at hand...you told her you had no intention of doing so. And yet, well...here we are."

"Oh. Oh!" replied Jack, a chuckle spreading over his face. "You thought she meant you?"

Phryne pulled back a little, looking somewhat abashed, her lovely eyes hidden beneath long lashes. "Ah, I had thought...you—she—did not mean me?"

He looked thoughtful. "Perhaps she did. I was too stubborn at the time to even allow myself to think that way. I thought she meant my musical career, a fancy which I decidedly abandoned upon returning from the war. It remains among my greatest passions, music, but I spoke the truth that day...I have absolutely no intention of pursuing it."

"Well, hell," sighed Phryne with a touch of chagrin. "That is a relief. You said it so positively, that you had no intention of pursuing it, and I though both of you meant me...I had believed at the time I had no chance of winning you. A musical career! Jack Robinson, you deny that you have hidden depths, but I have now found you guilty not only of being a failed actor, but a failed musician as well!"

He laughed at her. "Failed! That _is_ harsh, my dear. But acting was never my talent, and music _could_ have been my path, had the war not derailed me."

"You would have made a rather captivating singer," she encouraged, sweeping her fingers over his forehead and down his clean-shaven cheek. "I would have bought tickets to see you perform. But I must say I'm selfishly glad to have your performances all to myself."

"I can see that," he replied, pressing a long, warm kiss to the hinge of her jaw. She gave a sigh of perfect happiness against his neck, and he shivered at the way her breath feathered over the sensitive hairs of his nape.

The tender moment was interrupted by Hugh's eager voice coming round the corner. "Miss Fisher! Inspector? Where are you? They're just putting on the finishing touches, you may want to come in and have look."

Phryne smoothed a hand over her still-perfect bob and untangled herself from Jack, coming out from behind the hedge to reply to Hugh before he got suspicious. "Here we come. Is Jane satisfied with the likeness?"

"I believe so, Miss. She says it looks quite like Dr. Jones."

They entered the drawing room a few steps in front of Dot, who followed them with a tray of warm lemon cakes and tea. Once everyone had helped themselves to refreshments, Laurent, who had been adding a few final flicks of charcoal to the paper, passed the sketch to Jack.

It was a little frightening, even for Jack, to look upon the face of the man who had inflicted such depravities on poor little Marjorie Hyde. He had delicate features to match the description witnesses had given of him being a petite man; a small nose and mouth, the upper lip of which was indeed tugged slightly upward by a cleft lip scar. His eyes were dark and dead-looking—Jack could not tell if it was his imagination or if Laurent was talented enough to insert the emotions of a cold-blooded killer into the drawing itself. The man's black hair was slicked back and shiny, as Jane had described. For all this, it was a stodgy, insignificant face, a face that would easily disappear in a crowd. Jack sensed he would have trouble getting the casual observer to remember a face like that.

Frustrated, though he wasn't entirely sure why, he passed the drawing over to Hugh, who subsequently passed it on to Phryne, both examining it in turn. Dot, who was mixing a lump of sugar into her tea, stood to peek over her mistress's shoulder at the man she had watched Jane speak onto paper all morning.

Jack watched helplessly as, almost in slow motion, a look of shock widened Dot's eyes and made her hands loose and weak, causing her cup of tea and saucer to fall crashing to her feet.

"Ouch!" cried Dot, jumping back as the hot liquid soaked her ankles. Mr. Butler rushed forward to dab at Dot's scalded legs with a towel and both Hugh and Phryne hurried to Dot's side, looking deeply concerned.

"Dot! Good gracious, are you all right?" Phryne asked her shaken companion, grasping Dot by the hand.

Dot's shook her head. Her hands were trembling, along with her voice, as she spoke. "The portrait. The man," she half-whispered, her face white. "I know him. And so do you, Miss."

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><p>Thanks for your continued comments and support! Please don't hesitate if you find any inaccuracies, I'm not solid on some of the details from the show so if you see something incorrect please tell me! As always, thanks so much for reading!<p> 


	9. Chapter 9

Note: Sorry for the long delay between updates! Christmas is derailing my life LOL. But I was determined to finish this chapter tonight, despite having to work, cook and get the house ready for guests tomorrow. Somehow I managed it! Yeesh. I love the holidays but will be a little relieved when they're over. Thanks for your patience, and for sticking with me!

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><p>"The garden party we attended at Mrs. Abbott's last week, don't you remember?" asked Dot, agitation clipping her voice. "He was accompanying the Lady...oh, blast, what was her name? That Dutch marchioness, or was she French?"<p>

"Flemish," replied Phryne. "Lady Océane de Ligne. Yes, I remember her, Dot. But I don't remember him."

"No, you might have never saw him," said Dot. "He remained amongst the servants. But he didn't speak to anyone. He just watched his mistress intently the entire time."

"Are you sure, Dottie? Are you sure it's him?" asked Hugh, looking anxious that his beloved had been in such close proximity to their monster.

"Reasonably certain," confirmed Dot. "I don't really remember the scar on his lip, but now that I see the whole face...the resemblance is strong."

"The Lady Océane is new in town," stated Phryne, combing her memory for details. "She arrived from Brussels a little more than a month ago. If he accompanied her, it would explain why these crimes began so suddenly."

Jack looked thoughtful. "It takes a practiced killer to arrive in a new place and waste so little time before claiming lives. He is experienced. Still smelling of sea water and he's impersonating doctors and stalking little girls—"

"_Killing_ little girls," Phryne cut in. "But how and where is he doing it? Where can he be stashing his captives? His mistress is no doubt still staying at the Windsor, I cannot imagine her patronizing a lesser establishment—"

"No," interrupted Dot, her eyes clear and alert, "I heard her telling Mrs. Abbott she had already found a suitable accommodations in South Yarra. I remember wondering if she had let one of those beautiful old mansions."

Jack held his hands up in a calming gesture. "Let's everyone just slow down for a moment. We mustn't get ahead of ourselves, at least not until we get our hands on this fellow and have Jane and Giulietta identify him. We'll need to get an address for this marchioness woman...I'm sure that's within your reach, Miss Fisher?"

"Indeed," Phryne agreed, "All it will take is one phone call to Mrs. Abbott."

And so it did. Mrs. Abbott was all too pleased to be the holder of such sacred knowledge, and gave up Lady de Ligne's address without batting an eyelash.

"We can't just go barging in there with guns blazing," said Jack, resting his elbows on his knees and balancing his chin on steepled fingers. "Miss Fisher, you and I will pay the marchioness a visit. Welcome her to the neighborhood. See if her manservant is at home. Hugh, I want you to take the police motorcar and return at once to the station. Send two constables to meet us at Lady Océane's address in case he makes a run for it, and then make sure all the girls at Warleigh Grammar are accounted for. I need to know immediately if we have more than one victim to look for."

Hugh nodded and jogged out of the room in a hurry, forgetting his hat in the foyer and having to double back.

Phryne rose with Jack, who was making his way to the front door as well. She held him with a touch. "What if I simply paid the Lady a social call? That way our suspect wouldn't know we were on to him. She and I have socialized before, it would not be suspicious. Then we could get the lay of the land, learn who he is, make it more difficult for him to slip away."

Jack looked at her for several moments, considering her words. Finally, he shook his head. "No. No, it will waste too much time. I want him apprehended right away. Before the sun is set."

Phryne accepted this easily enough. They didn't really have time to waste, with the clock ticking for Lily. "Do you think Lady Océane is in danger from him? Do you think he's keeping the girls at her house?"

"It is possible," Jack told her, donning his coat and hat. "In answer to both. Those large manor homes have numerous hiding places, as long as he is successful in keeping her quiet."

Quickly and quietly, they were out the door and into the motorcar. As the engine roared to life, Phryne spoke. "We may be able to bring Lily back to her parents tonight."

"Like I said before," said Jack, his eyes fixed on the road before of them. "We cannot get ahead of ourselves. Dot may be remembering wrong. He may not be there at all."

* * *

><p>The drive to Lady Océane's new South Yarra residence was a relatively short one, and before long they were rumbling down the drive of a formidable old manor home. It was not at all to Jack's taste: an overdone mishmash of Palladian and Victorian designs painted a washy pastel yellow. The builder seemed to have been unable to decide between the two architectural styles and had thus incorporated as many elements of both as he could: wide, imperious pediments topped with lofty turrets, all of it festooned with columns and dentils and filigreed porticos. It was an odd house, but in a way it commanded respect. It was not hard to picture a lost little girl being locked away in one of those towers.<p>

They were ushered into an exquisite parlor, the interior of which was embellished to the hilt—it was clear that cost had not been a concern when decorating the room. It was still done up in an overtly Victorian style, the walls painted a deep cerulean while the paneling and swag friezes were overlaid with expensive gold leaf. Everything from the fireplace surrounds—the mantle of which was held aloft by a pair of nude marble caryatids—to the patterned golden drapes was of the highest and costliest caliber. Even Phryne was gazing around herself, unmistakably impressed.

The Lady herself was as astonishing as her parlor, and a good deal younger than Jack had pictured. He was certain she was not yet thirty. Her skin was clear and radiant, her green eyes bright and clever, her sleek, silvery blond hair coiled into a spotless coiffure . She had a lithe, trim figure which was wrapped in an elaborate costume of beaded emerald silk, an outfit which did not seem at all the sort of thing a person would simply wear around the house. The whole package was rather stunning, and Jack found himself wondering what kind of man the marquess was, allowing such a woman to voyage half way across the globe without him.

He saw Phryne watching him out of the corner of his eye and he knew he had been caught looking. But it was difficult not to look. Lady Océane de Ligne demanded to be looked at, much in the way Phryne herself did.

"This is a lovely surprise," drawled Lady Océane in accented but proficient English. Jack found her accent difficult to differentiate from a French one. "To what do I owe the pleasure, Inspector, Miss Fisher?"

"Unfortunately, we are brought here on police business," said Jack, hoping his clear, confident tone would derail any ideas the marchioness might have of using her wealth and influence to manipulate the situation. "We need you to assemble all of your male staff, as quickly as possible."

"You are looking for someone?" she asked, her eyes darting between Phryne and Jack in surprise.

Jack began to answer. "Your Grace—"

"Oh, tosh," smiled the Lady, waving an elegant hand. "We are nowhere near the Continent, Inspector. In Australia, I am Madame de Ligne and nothing more. It is refreshing, I find, to dispense with the formalities."

Somewhat gratified, Jack nodded and carried on. "Madame de Ligne, then. Please summon your male staff first, and then I will be at liberty to give you more information.

The Lady did as he asked, beckoning to her maid and giving her the instruction to summon the male staff to the ballroom.

Jack's heart pounded with the possibility that they almost had their man. "We are looking for one man in particular," he continued once the maid had left the room with the order. "The one who accompanied you to Mrs. Abbott's garden party."

This seemed to catch her by surprise. "Alfons? Yes, my bodyguard. What could you want with harmless little Alfons? Well it's no matter, you won't find him here, I'm afraid. It is his afternoon off, you see."

Jack's heart plummeted in disappointment, and he found it difficult to speak for a moment. Phryne seemed to sense this and jumped in to fill the silence.

"Your bodyguard?" she wondered incredulously. "He is a rather small man, is he not?"

"Oh, he is," chortled Océane, clearly not realizing the seriousness of the situation. "Tiny. My twit of a husband hired him for me. But Alfons is a clever one, he sees everything. He can get me out of a snag before I even know I'm in one. And anyhow, I am the lowly wife of a lesser Belgian marquess. I am not important enough to attack."

Jack found his voice again. "When will he return? Do you know where we can find him now?"

Lady Océane's answers were predictably vague. One could not expect a noblewoman to know much about the personal habits of her servants. All she knew was that Alfons was not required to return until morning, and that he could be practically anywhere. Though a pub might be a good place to start.

"We'll need his full name, please, Madame de Ligne," Phryne requested.

"Verlinden. Alfons Verlinden."

Jack scrawled the name in his notebook with a nod. "We will wait for him here, if that is agreeable to you. My constables will be here soon. In the meantime, may I have your permission to begin searching your home?"

The Lady crossed her legs, looking skeptical. "You may search Alfons's quarters, I suppose, but I am afraid I must protect my own privacy, unless I am under legal obligation to do otherwise."

Jack could have guessed as much. In any case, he would need more bodies to search a house so large. He did not think Lily would be hidden here anyway; the Crossley-Scotts had already pasted Lily's photograph everywhere they could think of so that practically everyone in town knew her face. It would be too difficult to hide a child widely known to be kidnapped in a house with so large a staff. If Lily was even still alive, he reminded himself, a shard of despair cutting into his heart. "I understand, madam. You are not under obligation yet. Can someone direct us to his room? It is a matter of some urgency."

"Of course," said the Lady, looking worried for the first time. "Your faces are so grave...what is it you suspect him of? What do you think he has hidden in my house?"

"Unfortunately that is not information we can share," replied Jack, checking his fob watch distractedly. "The room, please?"

Another maid led them to the servants quarters in the attic and stood at the door to the Alfons Verlinden's room as Jack and Phryne walked inside.

The room was eerily immaculate. Almost like a hospital room. The white bed linens were without blemish, the pillow set atop it as if it had never once been used. A pitcher and basin sat on the nightstand. Jack threw open the wardrobe to find only a few items of clothing, hung and separated with the exact amount of space between each article.

"There is nothing here, Jack. No personal items, no letters, no clutter...if there weren't clothes in the wardrobe I would say the room was vacant."

Before answering, Jack dismissed the maid, assuring her they could find their own way back downstairs.

"Yes, vacant," he murmured, buried in thought. "But that tells us something, Phryne. This Alfons fellow is not a normal sort of person, is he? Who keeps their room so tidy? What kind of man separates his hangers as if with a ruler?"

"That, or this room has been arranged with the knowledge that it might be searched," Phryne countered as she got down on hands and knees to check under the bed. "Not even a pair of shoes," she sighed in disappointment. She rose back to her feet, dipping an arm inside the pitcher by the bed and running her fingers across the bottom. "There's dust, Jack. This hasn't been used in some time."

Jack, meanwhile, was going through the pockets of the pants inside the wardrobe. There was not even a crumb to be found. "I think you may be correct, Miss Fisher. He keeps a few items in here to fool his mistress, but I don't believe he has inhabited this room for some time."

"He has safe house somewhere. Where he's doing his dirty work."

"There is a good chance. I need to telephone Hugh. We'll need more officers here to wait for Mr. Verlinden to return. We have our man, Phryne. I can feel it my gut."

Phryne nodded at him, gently taking his hand. "I feel it too. Oh, Jack, I hope he returns soon. I cannot bear to wait, thinking of what he might be doing to that poor child."

Jack closed his eyes briefly, nodding in agreement. He tried not to think of Lily's face.

When they found their way downstairs again, he asked another maid to show them to the telephone. She led them to Lady Océane's personal sitting room, where said Lady was reclining on an ornate sapphire chaise, perusing the newspaper.

Jack caught sight of the painting that hung over the fireplace and was momentarily distracted. In the foreground a naked girl lay on her stomach on a bed, her expression sly and seductive. There was second figure seated behind the bed, painted in profile and clad in a black hood, the face arranged in an unsettling expression. He moved forward to examine it more closely and was forced to conclude that it was a genuine Gauguin. He was suddenly impressed with Lady Océane's taste. There was something beautiful yet frightening about the painting, particularly the chilling, unlidded eyes of the dark figure, fixated on the young woman who seemed oblivious to the sinister presence behind her.

"You are an admirer of Gauguin?" Lady Océane purred, and he could hear the rustle of her beaded gown as she sidled up behind him. In moments, Phryne was at his other side, possessively slipping her fingers into the crook of his elbow.

"A casual admirer, yes," admitted Jack, examining the painting with interest. "I have not seen this one before, it's lovely."

The Lady gave him an appreciative smile. "_Spirit of the Dead Watching_, it is called. Strange, no? Ah, but I am devoted to the strange and obscene. It excites me endlessly."

"It is fascinating," commented Phryne, seeming more curious of the way Madame de Ligne was regarding Jack than of the painting. "If a little disturbing."

"Precisely," replied Océane. "Just as art should be. This particular one is reminiscent of _Memento Mori—'_remember that you will die.' Our medieval ancestors were obsessed with the idea. For me, it is simply a reminder to live life to the fullest, while I am here to enjoy it."

"An amiable sentiment," Phryne affirmed, who lived life by a similar principle.

Remembering his purpose, Jack abandoned all thoughts of paintings. "If you could be so kind as to lend me your telephone, Madame, I must check in with the station."

"But of course," she replied gesturing to an ornate black porcelain device painted with Chinese cranes and flowers. Phryne was kind enough to occupy Lady Océane with conversation while he made his call.

Hugh answered after only one ring and Jack barreled forward. "Hugh, bring everyone you can find, including yourself. Our suspect can be expected to return home at any moment and I don't want him to have any avenue of escape. I want each man armed and ready for action."

"Very good, sir," replied Hugh, sounding somewhat breathless, "But I have news as well. Turns out a missing persons report was filed this morning on a girl in Jane's class. She was on our list—Rosemary Trant. Last seen by the teacher who sent her to the clinic with a headache, a day before Jane's encounter with our suspect. We have men following up with the family now. "

"So he has two of them," Jack ground out, dread gnashing at his insides. "Get here as quickly as you can, Hugh. We're going to put an end to this. Today."

"Yes, sir. Warren and Talbot are on their way to you now, should be arriving any moment. I will arrive with back up as soon as I can."

"Be sure to park the cars conspicuously, not all together in one place. I don't want him tipped off that we're here."

"Of course, sir," replied Hugh. "I'll make sure of it."

With a hurried farewell Jack hung up the telephone and glanced to Phryne, who was still chatting with Madame de Ligne and did not appear to have overheard his reaction to Hugh's news. Good. He would wait until later to tell her. She did not deserve to be tormented any further by Jane's close call with Alfons Verlinden. Hearing of Rosemary Trant's abduction would only needlessly increase her worry and guilt. It could wait until after Verlinden was captured. She would be angry at him for withholding information, but she would understand, too, and forgive him eventually.

As Hugh had promised, Warren and Talbot appeared on the doorstep not five minutes later. Jack asked Lady Océane to set them up in second floor corner rooms at opposite sides of the house, where they would have the best chance of spotting Mr. Verlinden as he approached. He and Phryne took the circular study situated at the front west corner, which was equipped with tall windows that allowed clear views of the street and servant's entry. Warren and Talbot were positioned in a guest bedroom in the back, overlooking the drive and garden.

"And now we wait," sighed Phryne, settling herself atop a plush window seat, looking out onto the immaculate lawn to the side of the house.

Jack was feeling shaky and tense, as if every muscle had turned to glass and could shatter at any moment. Now that it was quiet, he couldn't avoid his emotions, which were rolling through his body like thunder. He couldn't keep them inside any more. The images in his mind were too intense. They were too close to getting their man. He needed to tell her everything. He needed her to fully understand the horror of Verlinden's crimes before the knowledge of them smashed him into a million jagged pieces.

* * *

><p>Phryne could tell something had changed in Jack's demeanor. He held himself stiffly, hardly moving, his eyes fixed and saturated with emotion.<p>

"Jack?" she murmured, beginning to stand and walk over to him. "Are you all right?"

"Stay at the window," he said softly, holding out a hand to stay her. "We cannot let him slip by."

Phryne did as she was bid—it was no time to quarrel. She let the silence swell between them, knowing he was building up to something. She gave him time to work up to it, her eyes scanning the horizon while her ears listened for any sound he made.

It was several minutes before he found words. "She didn't have any blood," he said quietly. "Such a little thing, naked and cold on the grass, and such a strange color...bloodless. Lifeless."

Phryne kept her eyes forward but swallowed at his words. "Poor lamb."

"The autopsy report came in earlier this morning. It says she died before he went to work on her," Jack stated, his voice almost a gasp as he fought the emotion she could hear building up in his throat. "I thank God and all his angels for it. A tiny mercy, but a mercy all the same."

"You don't have to say any more, Jack. It's all right," she soothed.

"It's anything but all right," he protested. "I have seen death, Phryne, as you know well. All kinds of death. Fellow soldiers dead, piles and piles of them, all around me. Dead relatives who drifted away peacefully in their sleep. So many murder victims, plenty of them innocent, some of them children, even. But never have I seen a death brought about with such delight and precision. Carried out not for rage or war or personal gain, but for the sheer pleasure of it. You could see it in every cut of his knife." He swallowed hard, and Phryne's heart clenched with sympathy. "Seeing her treated that way...it could not have hurt any more if she'd been my own child." He paused again, and she waited. "I must have you beside me, when we catch him. I need you to touch me, to somehow remind me of where and who I am. I fear that I will lose my mind at the sight of him and be driven by no higher purpose than to tear him apart with my bare hands."

"Oh, Jack," whispered Phryne, swiping at a tear that had snuck from her eye. "You know you can count on me. I'll be beside you, and we'll face it together."

"Stay at the window," he commanded, as she had risen again, wanting nothing more than to go to him. To hold him through his misery until he forgot every awful thing he had ever seen. "But thank you, Phryne. I'm glad you're here with me."

"Me, too," she replied simply, clasping her hands, which still itched to hold him, in her lap.

"Why here?" asked Jack. "Why did he have to come to our neighborhood and take our girls? Of all the damn places in the world?"

"You will go mad trying to make sense of it," sighed Phryne, trying in vain to smooth out a crease in her blue linen trousers. "I used to ask the same about my sister. I never did receive a satisfactory answer, so I resolved to stop asking."

Jack nodded in agreement. "Tragedy, like Justice, is blind. And cruel. But at least in this tragedy we have someone to punish for it."

Phryne gave him a rueful smile. "Let us hope so. I am ready to close the book on this brute."

There was a knock on the door and Hugh rushed inside without waiting for an invitation, looking as though he had maintained the same accelerated speed since leaving the station, his breath coming in short gasps. "Sir! We got here as quickly as we could. I brought fifteen officers, they're all waiting in the foyer for instructions. Has there been any sign of him?"

"Nothing. Send two up here to relieve us and I will go down and distribute the rest."

"Yes, sir. Right away, sir!" agreed Hugh, and he was gone just as quickly as he had appeared.

Two officers appeared presently to relieve them and Jack and Phryne quit the room together. As he closed the door behind him, he felt her warm fingers wrap around his wrist, pulling him to her before grabbing hold of him around the middle. He fold his arms around her, relishing in the moment of warmth and comfort though he knew it must be brief.

"I care about you, Jack. So much," she whispered into his chest. He could feel her hot breath, even through the wool of his waistcoat. "Thank you, for sharing that with me just now. I know it wasn't easy."

"No," admitted Jack. "But you make me want to share the things that aren't easy. Share them with you, I mean. I've never had that before, not even with Rosie. It's a lovely thing, really. Thank you."

Her chuckle vibrated from her body into his. "You're welcome, I suppose? I didn't do it on purpose, of course. But I'm glad. So glad."

They held each other for a few more stolen moments before Jack reluctantly released her, regretting the loss of her heat immediately. But Alfons Verlinden was roaming the streets of Melbourne at this very moment, and Jack sensed that it was going to be a long night indeed.


	10. Chapter 10

Note: Hope everyone had a nice holiday! Here is chapter 10. I need your opinion when you get to the end...I tried to fade to black but I'm wondering if I'm walking the line between T and M a bit precariously. Please let me know your thoughts. Also, I've noticed myself drifting between Jack and Phryne's POVs a little more loosely (without dividing it into distinctive sections) and am curious to know if it's okay or if people find it distracting. If you have opinions on either of those issues please share them! Otherwise, thanks so much for reading!

* * *

><p>Lula Thatcher tucked a honey-colored curl behind her ear as she prepared herself to move into the crowd. Lula didn't like crowds; in fact, she did not like strangers at all. She was always fearful of what they might say to her, especially groups of young men, who had a habit of blurting out the most offensive thing they could think of for the entertainment of their friends. To be the butt of a joke was one of Lula's deepest fears, second only to being trampled beneath the feet of a panicked crowd.<p>

But she had promised her mother she would finish the shopping before returning home that evening, and it was her own fault for putting off the task until the busiest part of the day. She would have to swallow her discontent and finish the errand as quickly as possible—her poor mother deserved at least that much.

Bravely, Lula stepped from her hiding place in the alleyway and joined the flow of the sidewalk traffic. She breathed in the clamor of the horde, an aroma threaded with diesel fuel and the balmy whiff of fresh bread. She would take herself to the chemist's first. Lula's mother was getting headaches again and it would take a first rate powder to get Mrs. Thatcher back on her feet. With five other children after Lula one was required to be on one's feet quite a lot.

Lula never made it to the chemist's, though. A small, dark-haired man stopped her when she was halfway there. "Pardon me, Miss, I'm so sorry to disturb you, but I've lost my little girl. She was just holding my hand and got away from me somehow, I'm sure she can't have gone far...have you seen a child of about five wandering around? Here, I have a photo."

Lula studied the man as he rummaged in his pockets for his wallet. He was short with a neighborly sort of look to him. He had a European accent but he spoke English very well. And he seemed frantic with worry. A thin scar divided his upper lip, but Lula was a polite girl and did not let her gaze linger there.

"Here it is," he whimpered, passing her a photograph of a smiling, light-haired child with a trembling hand. "She's called Clémentine. My wee Clemmie. Oh, dear me, I think she must have gone in search of sweeties, I told her we would get some after our shopping but she's an impatient little thing, good gracious, what am I going to do? There are so many people…"

Lula's heart clenched in sympathy. She wasn't sure why the man had stopped her out of all the people in the street, but Lula was a God-fearing girl, and she thought God must want her to help this poor man find his daughter. Hadn't Lula's pastor told her just last week that she must strive to have a servant's heart?

"Don't fret, sir, I can help you look. Where did you last see her?"

"Oh, you _are_ an angel! I think we should start at the park," he suggested, pointing the way through an empty alleyway that would lead them there. "She knows the way there well enough and she loves the duck pond."

Secretly relieved to escape from the crowd, and certain that being a Good Samaritan was more important than headache powders, Lula followed the man eagerly into the alleyway.

* * *

><p>Inky blue was devouring a punch-pink sky on the other side of the enormous arched windows in Madame de Ligne's ballroom, where Jack had spent the last several hours interviewing each and every member of her male staff. The seeping darkness was an unpleasant reminder of the continued absence of Alfons Verlinden, who had not yet seen fit to reveal himself. Plagued by the fear that their killer might have been tipped off, might already be preparing to flee, it took all of his concentration to carry on with the interviews.<p>

But carry on he did. He was exhausted and his nerves felt raw and frayed, but he had a duty to perform. He and Phryne had divided the staff by sexes, deciding that the men might be more forthcoming without Phryne present, and the women likewise, with Jack out of the room. She had thus positioned a string of maids outside the solarium at the back of the house, while Jack had dealt with the men who were already gathered in the ballroom.

He had considered giving her a list of necessary questions to ask, as it was less than orthodox to allow a civilian to question witnesses, but then thought better of it, knowing she would see it as an affront to her abilities and wouldn't be likely to use the list anyway. It was better to let Phryne manage Phryne, as she saw fit, and garner what he could from the results. Ultimately, he trusted her, and he could see in her eyes that she knew, and was pleased by the fact.

What followed had been a seemingly endless procession of male servants, and now Jack found himself facing his final interview. His subject was a thin, sallow-faced young man, possibly fourteen but no older, sitting stationed on the ottoman opposite the canapé occupied by Jack. He had an ill, skittish look about him and he held himself so carefully that he swayed a bit, as if hoping to touch the silk upholstery of the ottoman with as little of his backside as possible. He reminded Jack a bit of a cold Chihuahua.

"Tell me your name, lad, and your occupation," Jack began. He was hoping against hope that, after a long line of oblivious employees, this final interrogation would yield something useful.

The boy was nervous, that was clear enough. He had a guilty expression that was not hard to spot for a seasoned policeman. Jack suspected such petty crimes as drinking from her Ladyship's liquor stores or pilfering silver from the china cabinet. "It's Walter Lipscomb. I'm the houseboy."

Noting Walter's surname and local accent, Jack asked, "I take it you did not make the trip from Brussels with your mistress?"

There was a shrug of bony shoulders. "No, sir. Born in Fitzroy. But I'm an orphan, now, sir. Mrs. Martin, the cook, was a friend of me mum's, God rest her soul. Got me the job here."

"That was kind of her. And do you enjoy working for Lady Océane?"

Walter supplied a diplomatic answer. Most of the staff, including Walter, had worked for the Lady no longer than a few weeks and did not have anything very useful to offer on the subject. Jack moved on to more pressing questions.

"And what about Alfons Verlinden, the Lady's bodyguard? Have you interacted much with him?"

A black look passed over Walter's face. His watery brown eyes shifted in their sockets, and all the listlessness was ironed from the boy's body as his muscles became rigid with the emotions inspired by Verlinden's name. "Enough," was all Jack got in reply.

He fixed the lad with a stern look. "I'm going to need more than that, my boy."

Walter shook his head, looking angry and, if Jack was not mistaken, rather frightened. "He's a bad man."

"Tell me, specifically, what he's done to make you say so."

Walter seemed to be debating with himself. He exhaled ponderously, and with the release of breath some of his inhibitions seemed to fall away. "He's _evil_," the boy muttered, his face twisting with revulsion. There was a long silence as Walter battled with his emotions, and Jack could see the boy gathering something in his mind. Whether it was his wits or a tall tale, Jack couldn't be sure. "He harasses the maids. I mean, _really_ torments them. Pinches their bottoms and steals their nighties and other nasty things. When I told him to leave off one day he _choked_ me. The girls pried him off, but later that night I found a dead rat, all chopped in pieces, scattered over my bed. Bloodied all the damn linens."

Jack scratched a few words into his notebook and waited for Walter to continue, his instincts telling him the boy had more to say. But Walter did not offer anything else.

Jack shifted on the canapé, leaning back and propping his ankle on the opposite knee. "Has he ever harmed any of the maids? Physically?" he prompted.

Walter shook his head. He began to rub knuckles of his knobby fists up and down his thighs in agitation. "I don't think so. I'm the only one he's ever laid hands on, that I know of."

Jack noted the increase in Walter's anxiety and decided it was time to change tacts. He didn't want to wear the boy out on the first go, especially if what he was withholding was something vital. He sensed that whatever it was, it would not be forced out, and therefore the boy must be given time to wrestle with his conscience. An easier question, then. "I don't suppose you could you tell me if Mr. Verlinden actually uses the room assigned to him in the servant's quarters?"

Walter's eyebrows gathered in confusion at the question and his hands grew still on his legs, the fingers loosening from their tight fists. "No, sir, I couldn't say. Don't see why he wouldn't, but I steer clear of him best I can...wouldn't know his sleeping habits, sir."

Jack nodded and flipped back over his notes to ensure there wasn't anything else that needed asking. Walter's unfavorable account of Verlinden was something to go on, at least. It was far from a smoking gun, but it bolstered his certainty that they had their man.

There was a creak of hinges behind them and Phryne's head peeked through the door. "Oops, pardon me! My apologies, Jack, I thought you were finished." But she did not retreat.

Jack raised a hand and gestured her into the room. "No, it's all right. Come in, we were just wrapping things up."

There was a rustle of motion on the ottoman. "Miss Fisher!" cried Walter, startling Jack by leaping to his feet. "What are you doing here?"

Recognition lit Phryne's face as she swayed over to the pair of them. She reached out and drew the boy warmly into an embrace. "Walter Lipscomb! Smashing good to see you, dear, are you working for the Lady de Ligne?" The lad was clumsy but pleased in her arms, and seemed to regret it when she pulled away. Jack knew the feeling all too well.

"I see the two of you are already acquainted," observed Jack, unsure of what to do besides point out the obvious. He swept his jacket back to prop a fist on his hip and fixed Phryne with an expression of raised eyebrows and pressed lips.

"Quite right, Inspector," Phryne agreed, taking the boy's hand in her gloved one and patting it affectionately. "Walter's father owns the garage where I take the Hispano for yearly service. He's a cracking young mechanic himself, you should see him. Installed new headlights for me during my last visit, all on his own."

Walter's thin shoulders slumped and he lowered himself back onto the ottoman, letting his hand slip from between Phryne's. "I'm a houseboy now, Miss. The drink took Dad a few months back, and influenza got Mum the year before that. The debt collectors claimed the garage, and everything in it."

Phryne settled beside Jack on the canapé and reached out to cup Walter's chin. "Oh, you poor dear! I had no idea. I'm glad to see you've found a place for yourself, despite it all. Though this business with Verlinden is unpleasant, I'm sure."

Walter looked between Phryne and Jack, the anxiety returning to his face and Jack felt again as if the boy had something further to impart.

"Walter, is there anything more you'd like to tell us?" he inquired gently, glancing over to Phryne for support. She took his hint at once.

"Yes, Walter, you know that you can tell us anything. We'll protect you. Even find you a new situation, if necessary. Now that I know you're all on your own I'll make sure you're looked after. Your father was always good to me."

Walter bit the inside of his cheek, his dark eyes still flicking back and forth between them, but in the end he shook his head. "No, Miss. Thank you, Miss. But there isn't anything else."

Jack let him go after that, watching the boy slink from the room like a dog who knew all too well what it was to be kicked.

"The lad knows something," Jack murmured to Phryne when the were alone. "He's holding something back."

"Did he give you anything useful at all?"

Jack relayed Walter's account of Verlinden, watching her face and wanting nothing more than to pull her close and luxuriate in her warmth.

"Odd. That he would be bothered enough to leave a dismembered rat on the bed of a harmless houseboy. You'd think he'd be too busy with murdering people."

"Yes, I thought that was strange as well. Did any of the maids mention Verlinden's unwelcome attentions?"

"Oh, yes. The housekeeper, Mrs. Trimmer, says she has a terrible time keeping him away from her maids. She double-bolts the entrance to the female servant's wing each night, for fear of him making unwanted nocturnal visits. He's a slimy fellow, Jack, of that I have nary a doubt. But I find it shocking that he has time to harass the maids _and_ prey on little girls. He's a busy chap, this Alfons Verlinden."

A commanding knock at the door prevented Jack from responding. He called out for the knocker to enter, and Detective-Inspector Lenox stepped into the room. Jack was glad to see his colleague, who was both a decent man and decent detective. "I'm here to relieve you," the man commented, looking grave. "I've brought a fresh set of constables along, and Inspectors Yardman and Granger will join us momentarily. No sign of the bastard, then?"

"Neither hide nor hair," confirmed Jack, gathering his hat from the table and snugging it onto his head. "I think I'd like to stick around at least until midnight, in case he should appear."

"Go home, Jack," insisted the ruddy-faced Lenox, bracing a hand on Jack's shoulder. "We will telephone if he turns up. If he does not, there's no reason to deprive yourself of sleep. You'll be useless to everyone tomorrow, and if we have no culprit by then, that's when the real work will begin."

He felt Phryne's fingers, light but insistent on his forearm. "Yes, Jack, I should like to get back as well and make sure my household hasn't forgotten what I look like."

With of the two of them against him, aided by the fatigue eroding away at his resolve, Jack was forced to yield. At least it was Lenox they had sent to relieve him, one of the few fellow officers Jack knew he could trust blindly. He thanked his colleague, handing over his notes and quickly apprising Lenox of the afternoon's events.

Once he was caught up, the other inspector took himself out of the ballroom to coordinate the change of watch. Phryne and Jack were alone again.

"Shall we away?" murmured Phryne, fixing him with big, glassy eyes.

Recognizing _Endymion_, he responded in kind. "Let us rouse the steeds."

* * *

><p>The journey home was carried out in silence, with both Jack and Phryne turning over the day's events carefully in their minds. Soon, however, Phryne's thoughts drifted to the separation that was about to befall the two of them when he dropped her off at her home. The more she thought about it, the more she grasped for ways to prevent it. The longer she pondered this, the more the tension between them seemed to swell, until she felt like they were a pair of conducting electrodes, shooting humming sparks of electricity at each other through the empty air.<p>

Unable to keep from touching him any longer, Phryne reached over and took Jack's free hand into her lap, turning it palm side up and using her fingernail to draw a line around his mount of Venus. He sat up a little straighter. Encouraged, she cupped her hand around the back of his and used her thumb to lay his fingers flat, stroking over each one in turn as if trying to memorize every line and indentation. Then she drew designs on his skin, from fingertips to wrist, gently grazing him with her nails before turning his hand over and giving the same treatment to the back. By the time he pulled into her drive, his breath was coming more quickly and he fumbled quite a bit with the handle as he let himself out of the motorcar.

The silence persisted as they walked together to her front door. They stopped at the stoop, facing each other shyly. Phryne studied Jack's face in the harsh yellow glare of the porch lamps. She knew the look in his eyes. It was the look of a man who did not wish to be sent away. In any other man, the look would have made her smug and self-important. On Jack, it only made her feel giddy and needed and reckless with desire.

"It's getting late," she whispered, her breath catching on the splinters of lust that pierced her from throat to groin.

He let out a shaky breath as he shoved his hands into his pockets. His chin was dipped, but looked up at her through his lashes. "Nightcap?"

Without a word she unlocked the front door and pulled him inside by the hand, feeling as if she would never tire of the way his large fingers encompassed her own so completely.

It was dark in the house except for the small lamp Dot always left on in the foyer. Everyone was asleep.

Jack noticed, too. He reached out to slide a hand around Phryne's waist. She felt the heat of his skin through the silk of her scarf coat. His fingers gripped her, pulled her slowly and carefully into his body. She had to swallow hard to keep from panting over him like a puppy.

Their lips glided together, instinct taking over, and at first the kiss was soft, uncertain, electric. Every movement of his mouth was sweet anguish as her body craved, demanded more. She forgot she was the Honorable Miss Phryne Fisher, expert seductress and poised lady detective. She was a smitten maiden in his arms, desperately grasping at the lapels of his coat as she squirmed ever closer, curling her tongue against the roof of his mouth and thrilling at the rich groan it earned her.

Her heart trembled with her fingers as he sucked her lower lip between his and used his teeth to gently explore the sensitive flesh behind it. Her hands had parted his waistcoat and were exploring underneath, impatient with the cotton that kept her fingers from finding flesh.

His mouth was at her neck, insistent, softly sucking at her pulse before sliding torturously down, down to her collarbone.

It was all she could do not to start climbing his body like a tree. She kept her lips open as he kissed his way back up her neck, welcoming his tongue as it sunk hot and thick inside her mouth. A moan bubbled out of her throat and she pushed his hat carelessly to the floor, letting her fingers invade and ruin his sculpted hair.

His hands dropped to her bottom and he gripped her hard, lifting her firmly against him. Phryne's head felt light, but forfeiting a little oxygen for Jack's talented mouth was well worth it. They stumbled into the wall, Jack barely catching a framed picture they had dislodged before it crashed to the floor.

Phryne laughed a little at their near miss, then, feeling the intensity of his gaze on her, let her eyes flick up to meet his. The expression on his face drove a spear of lust through her. "Upstairs," he ground out, dropping the picture carelessly onto a side table.

Phryne found she rather liked the commanding tone he took, which was odd, as she couldn't stand that tone when they were working on a case. Cloaked in a thick layer of passion, however, the sound of his command was irresistible.

She had to make certain, though. She did not want him to do something he wasn't ready for. "Are you sure?" she whispered, feathering a finger over the shell of his ear.

Jack was sure. He had never been more sure about anything. _Speak low if you speak love_, Shakespeare encouraged, and the Bard was never wrong when it came to such matters. Jack tried to adjust his voice to the perfect pitch. "I'm sure," he affirmed in gravelly tones. "Why should we wait, Phryne? We like each other immensely. I want you immensely. I need the comfort of your mouth and your body, or I won't get through the night. Please."

Phryne Fisher was not one to swoon, but her eyelids gave a telling dip at his words. "What girl could say no to that?" she responded weakly. "Upstairs it is."

They did their best to move silently to Phryne's bedroom, though Phryne was beyond caring whether they woke anyone up. To hell everyone and what they might think. Her mind and her heart were full of Jack, and nothing else mattered.

Closing the door quietly behind them, Jack trapped her wrists behind her and grasped the back of her head, urging her lips against his own so firmly she could feel the press of his teeth. She was jarringly reminded of the time he had "arrested" her, wrestling and warring with her until he had her clamped in irons. It was the one and only time had ever manhandled her. At the time she had been furious, not to mention terrified for Jane. She had sworn to never forgive him for it.

But when she reflected on the scene afterwards, independently of the circumstances, she recognized that there was something about the sheer physicality of his actions, something about the angry fire she had lit in him with that kick to the shin, a fire that had caused the kind and gentle Jack Robinson to pull and tug her about like that...it had suggested an intensely passionate nature hidden beneath all those layers of gallantry, and the whole thing had aroused her so profoundly that she had replayed the moment over and over in her fantasies ever since. It was so easy to picture the scene playing out in a bedroom, with the people she loved safe and Hugh Collins somewhere far, far away.

Yes. She would find a way to get Jack to lay hands on her like that again. Even if it meant another blow to the shin.

But she would save it for another night. Tonight was about giving Jack the comfort and intimacy he craved and making him forget the graphic images she knew had filled his mind since the discovery of Marjorie Hyde. If only for a little while.

She pulled back from him just long enough to strip off her clothes, returning to his arms warm and naked. It was dark in the room, but he could admire her bare flesh another time. Right now she just wanted him to feel her.

And feel her he did. He crushed her to his chest as he kissed her, his hands skidding madly over her skin as if to paint every inch of her with his touch. She loved the vulnerable sensation of her naked body rubbing against his still-clothed one, but she knew she would love the sensation of his bare flesh even better. He had already lost his jacket and waistcoat somewhere along the way, and it was nothing to tug his shirt out of his waistband and pry the buttons apart. She pushed his braces down his shoulders, which allowed his trousers to slide easily off his hips into a satisfying pool on the floor.

She moved then to his shorts, which were nothing at all to dismiss, and while she banished them he hauled his undershirt over his head. These were tossed away with the rest of their garments.

He gave her no time to explore his nakedness, pushing her backwards until they plunged onto the bed in a tangle of limbs. He moved over her with an expertise she had not anticipated, or perhaps he simply knew her well enough to guess where she needed to be touched. She was gasping and writhing before long, her hands hungrily exploring every dip and curve of his muscled back. The sight of him in his swimming costume had hinted that he was an athletically built man and now her grasping hands confirmed it. He was powerful and firm in all the right places. His weight on top of her was more of a luxury than anything she could ever buy with money.

"Jack," she whispered into his ear, her hand fisted in his hair. She inhaled the lingering scents of aftershave and castile soap on his skin. "You are magnificent."

"Not half so much as you are, Miss Fisher." He looked at her with a touch of apprehension in his eyes. "I fear I may not impress you with my stamina this first time around. You are the first woman I have touched in longer than I'd like to say."

Phryne shook her head and kissed him again and again. "I command you to snuff out any misdirected ideas you might have about performance requirements, Jack. Just being naked in this bed with you is powerful enough to make me forget every lover that came before. I don't have any expectations, Jack. I just want you."

He let her words soothe away his fears and scooped his hands beneath her to arrange her hips just so. With a single deft stroke they were joined, and all of his anxieties shivered into dust as he claimed her for his own. Just that quickly, he knew he was spoiled for any other woman. It was only Phryne, it would only ever be Phryne. If he were to die tonight, with her name on his lips, he would descend calmly into Hell, comforted by the knowledge that he had seen Heaven at least once.


	11. Chapter 11

Note: Okay, gang, looks like we're going M. Might as well take full advantage, right? Right.

* * *

><p>When Jack began to stir, the room was lit only by the thin gray haze of almost-dawn. He was immediately aware of his bareness and felt uneasy, realizing it was the first time he'd woken up in the altogether since the very early days of his marriage. But a moment later the equal bareness of a certain Phryne Fisher shifted against him, and he forgot his discomfort entirely.<p>

He examined her in the gossamer morning glow, pleased to find her sleeping face as naked as the rest of her. He loved her face bare and he had told her so last night, as he kissed away what remained of her lipstick. She must have been in a mood to oblige him, for she had proceeded to slip from bed and wipe her face clean. As a result she was au naturel in every sense this morning. Her pink lips were parted and a little swollen from his attentions, her skin luminous and pale, her sculpted cheeks rosy. Jack sighed deeply, just looking at her. He would give her anything she asked and more if it meant he could spend the rest of his life waking up to that face.

He reached out and gathered the damask coverlet in his fingers, carefully drawing it away from her body to reveal what the darkness had kept secret from him last night. His mouth went dry at the sight of her breast peeking out from the crook of her elbow. He flicked his eyes up to her face, pleased to find she was still securely in the arms of Morpheus. Unable to resist, he pressed his index finger to her succulent, peach-pink nipple, mesmerized by the way it tightened and flourished under his caress. Transfixed, Jack dragged his touch downwards, heart shuddering in his chest as he spread the delicate gathers of her areola until the skin lay smooth. He studied her flesh intently, absorbing every reaction, every detail—how it puckered, seizing up into luscious little pleats, how it grew tighter and pinker the more he toyed with her. If this went on much longer, he was in danger of embarrassing himself against her thigh. All over one silly, splendid nipple.

There was a change in her breathing but Jack was too absorbed in his task to take note. His mouth was watering with the desire to taste her, and he had just begun to dip his head when she broke his concentration with a throaty laugh. "I say, Jack Robinson. The sun is hardly up and you're already pushing all the right buttons. I always knew you had it in you."

Her thick, sleepy voice raked over his skin like hot coals. Angling his head back up so he could meet her eyes, he brought his thumb to meet his forefinger, trapping her nipple in between. He twisted a little then pinched until she gasped, taking advantage of her parted to lips to inflict a greedy, penetrating kiss. She captured the wrist that was occupied at her breast and dragged his hand between her legs, giving a little sob into his mouth as one of his knuckles nudged against that all-important bundle of nerves at her center.

So important it was to both of them, in fact, that they were deaf to the sound of footsteps in the hall. Even the whine of hinges as the bedroom door opened was missed completely. But the shriek of horror that came out of Dot was impossible to ignore. "Miss, did you make it home all—_oh my God!_"

The newly-minted lovers sprang apart in surprise, clutching frantically at bed linens as they scrambled to cover themselves. With a fistful of blanket pulled up to her chin Phryne gaped at her companion, who was standing frozen in doorway with her hands clapped over her eyes. She found the fact that Dot had just taken the Lord's name in vain nearly as shocking as being discovered in bed with the Inspector.

There was a moment of tense silence as Phryne grasped for something to say. Before she could manage it, however, Dot had spun on her heel and fled, slamming the door behind her.

Phryne and Jack stared at each other in alarm. Both were struck utterly speechless. Then, Phryne watched in disbelief as Jack's face cracked into a wide, toothy grin, a grin unlike any she'd ever seen on him, and he threw his head back with a shout of laughter.

His amusement made the corners of her lips turn up. He began to laugh in earnest, laughter like a giddy schoolboy, and Phryne found herself unable to do anything but join him. The two of them fell back onto the bed, guffawing like a pair of drunken idiots until they were quite out of breath. Their abdomens convulsed with the echoes of their unprompted mirth until they lay panting beside each other, looking as if they'd just finished with something far more erotic.

A knock came on the tail of their laughing fit, followed by Mr. Butler's cheerful voice through the door. "Good morning Miss Fisher, Inspector! Didn't want you to fret about Miss Williams, I've put some brandy in her morning tea and she's resting quietly. Are scones and clotted cream all right for breakfast or will you require something a bit more fortifying? Bacon and eggs perhaps?"

Phryne was about to answer that scones were just fine, but Jack cut across her. "Bacon and eggs would be a treat, Mr. B, thanks so much."

"Very good, Inspector! See you downstairs."

Phryne ducked her head and buried her face in Jack's chest, her shoulders shaking with residual laughter. "Well, I suppose the cat has launched itself _straight_ out of the bag," she commented, her voice muffled against his skin.

He stroked the hair away from her neck and smiled. "I suppose the damage was done when we forgot to lock the door behind us."

"It was going to come out eventually. At least this way we can avoid an awkward sit-down."

Jack nodded, dreading the fact that he would soon have to end this light, happy moment. He would have done anything to keep from banishing that coy grin from her face, but he would need to put a call in to the station straightaway and see if there was any word on Verlinden. He panicked for a moment, realizing that someone might have tried to call him at home and instead he had been here with Phryne. But he couldn't bring himself to regret it. Though they hadn't managed a lot of sleep last night, it had been hours more than he would have achieved in his own empty house. He would be able to catch up this morning, and would simply make excuses if they asked why he hadn't answered his home telephone.

Phryne crawled forward and curled her fingers behind his neck, sending a cool shiver down his spine. She pulled him to her, pressing her lips to one cheek, and then the other. "Your cheeks look so tasty and pink this morning," she murmured, dropping another smiling kiss beside his nose. "I simply _must_ kiss them."

"Ah, Phryne," he sighed, certain his cheeks were flushing even pinker beneath her fine mouth. "I would lay here and collect your kisses until your lips were bruised. But reality will have its way with us, as it always does. I have to ring the station."

Phryne dropped one last kiss on the underside of his right cheekbone and pulled back, stretching over to her nightstand to collect the telephone in one hand and dropping it deftly into his lap.

Phryne slipped into the bathroom while Jack made his call, twisting the hot tap and watching the water fill the tub with unfocused eyes as she allowed herself to luxuriate in the delicious memories of last night.

Making love to Jack had been frenzied and clumsy and transcendent. Her skin was still on fire with the memory of his touch. He had lacked poise, perhaps, but it had been to his credit rather than detriment...his beauty and eagerness had been enough to send her reeling. He had covered her with his large body, crushing her into the mattress and burying himself so deeply inside of her she had seen stars explode behind her eyes. She remembered biting into his shoulder at one point to muffle the wild cries he was drawing from her, and made a note to check his skin for the wound when she got out of the tub. The thought of him going about his day tattooed with little red welts from her teeth was rousing indeed.

She sank to her chin in the hot water and contemplated the technique of his thrusts. They had been slow, deep, profound; as if every stroke he delivered into her body had a unique significance. Every plunge of his hips had made her flesh shiver and resonate with an acute emotion she could not name, something beyond pleasure, beyond ecstasy, even, and if she had not seen the sweat beading on his forehead, combined with the taut expression of dwindling self-restraint on his face, she would no doubt have found completion from his thrusting alone. A rare thing, that, even with the best lovers. Out of compassion for his tightly held control, however, she had come to his aid. Sliding her fingers between them, it had only taken a few little rubs to send her hurtling into a yawning sky of pleasure, her convulsing inner muscles pulling him eagerly along with her. She recalled the intricate shudder that had passed over his face as he climaxed. It was an image she would stow deep inside the folds of her memory, never to be forgotten.

Phryne shivered, even though the water was still hot, and resolved to stop thinking about last night. If she continued on in this vein it would be quite impossible for her to let him ever leave her bedroom.

She was rinsing shampoo from her hair when his soft knock came at the door. "I'm going, Phryne. Verlinden never turned up, and I need to get down to the station and help them get his face out to the public. Not to mention try and find some way to keep him from leaving town."

Phryne began to protest that she was coming with him, but he interrupted her. "No, no, sweetheart, enjoy your bath and eat a good breakfast. There won't be much for you to do until we get the police work out of the way. I'll call you when we're through and you can come meet me at the station."

She sighed, not warming to the idea of being left out but knowing sense when she heard it. She also pretended not to notice the warmth that spread through her when he called her 'sweetheart.' She really shouldn't tolerate such nonsense from him. "Then at least come and kiss me good-bye, Jack."

He chuckled through the door, the muffled noise indicating that his lips were pressed right against the seam. "Miss Fisher, you know as well as I that if I see you in that tub I will forget I ever was a policeman. Probably my own name, too. We'll continue where we left off tonight."

"I'll be counting down the minutes," she murmured back to him, sloshing the water around a bit in case he needed any more reminding that she was naked in the tub.

"You won't be the only one," he rasped, his voice somewhat quieter. Then she heard his footsteps retreat, and he was gone.

Phryne felt a bit gloomy at his departure, but was heartened by the thought that there was still much to look forward to this evening.

After a few more moments of soaking, the bathwater began to lose its heat and Phryne eased out of the tub to towel off. She had no one to blame but herself for the absence of Dot, and was thus forced to rummage through her closet by herself in search of a suitable outfit.

It took a bit longer than usual, but she emerged from her bedroom almost an hour later, feeling flawless in a white chiffon blouse and black pleated skirt. Being Phryne, she had no choice but to defy the conservative ensemble with a brazen vermillion shawl, draped artfully across her body. A silk bandeau of the same bold color adorned her dark hair.

She arrived at the breakfast table to find Dot sipping tea and refusing to meet her eyes.

"Morning, Miss," she greeted crisply, pretending to peruse last month's edition of _Cinema Romance_.

Phryne allowed herself a small, knowing smile. "I am sorry if Jack and I gave you a fright this morning, Dot. But I daresay you'll need to grow accustomed to the sight of male flesh when you're married. Think of it as a learning experience."

Dot glared, insomuch as Dot was able to glare. "Pardon _me_, miss, but I believe the whole point of marriage is seeing the nude flesh of only _one _male. Inspector Robinson is not the male I had in mind. Come to think of it, I had no idea _you_ had him in mind either, Miss."

Mr. Butler, who was at the stove prodding a considerable heap of scrambled eggs, muttered over his shoulder, "Really, Miss Williams, you have eyes in your head, you ought to use them. I for one saw this coming a mile away. I'm honestly shocked it took so long."

Phryne tucked into the table with eyebrows raised at Mr. Butler's candor. "I had no idea we were being so obvious about it, Mr. B."

"Takes a trained eye, I suppose," he responded, distributing the steaming eggs onto two plates which he garnished plentifully with bacon. He placed the plates before Phryne and Dot before going back to make one for himself.

Phryne took a bite of Mr. Butler's impeccable eggs, feeling a selfishly relieved that she and Jack would not have to pretend any longer in front of the people that mattered most. "In any case, Dot. That was not how I would have had you find out. I hope you can forgive us for neglecting to secure the door."

"Not at all, Miss," replied Dot, a bit of the color returning to her cheeks. "If anything, it will teach me to knock."

They had a good chuckle about it, then, and all was forgiven. As their laughter died away, Jane wandered sleepily into their midst, looking confused at all the early morning merriment.

"Morning," she yawned, rubbing at her eyes as she took her place at the table. "What's so funny?"

The shrill of the telephone saved Phryne from having to explain. "I'll get that," she volunteered, popping out of her chair. "Carry on with your breakfast, everyone."

The tone of the caller's voice told Phryne immediately that this was not a social call. "Oh, Miss Fisher, thank goodness. I know it's early, I hope I haven't disturbed you. This is Virginia Fellowes, from the university, I'm a friend of Dr. McMillan's? We met at the hospital fundraiser last month."

Phryne did not remember the woman at all, but gave no indication. "Mrs. Fellowes! How lovely to hear from you. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"You may have read about it in the papers. Marjorie Hyde, the little girl that was killed last week?"

Phryne swallowed. "Yes, yes I did hear about that. How awful."

Mrs. Fellowes sniffled through the line. "She was my grand-niece. My niece and her husband have been beside themselves with grief, as I'm sure you can imagine, and they're worried the police aren't doing enough. Dr. MacMillan thought you might be able to help."

Phryne hesitated. Jack might not be pleased, as he had never officially allowed her into the Marjorie Hyde investigation, but on the other hand, it was not in her to deny a grieving family. If there was anything she could do to help, Jack would just have to get used to the idea.

"Of course, Mrs. Fellowes. I'd be glad to lend my services. Where shallI meet you?"

* * *

><p>Lula Thatcher couldn't move. Her wrists were bound—not by ropes, but by irons. She began to sob in terror, writhing against her restraints. The cold metal clattered and screamed against the stone floor as she thrashed, but an underfed sixteen-year-old was no match for cast iron.<p>

"Stop with that racket!" hissed a voice nearby, surprising Lula enough to make her still.

"Who's there?" she whimpered, trying to be quieter. Her eyes battled with the blackness until they were sore, and she might as well have been blind. It was so dark it felt like she had been shut in a coffin and sealed deep beneath the soil. She would have to rely on her ears instead. Lula was certain that the voice she had heard belonged to another young girl, and she felt the bottom drop out of her stomach at the thought that she was not the only captive here.

After a long silence, a response hissed across the gaping darkness. "Does it matter? We're all about to snuff it anyways. Be quiet and let the little girl sleep."

Lula sniffled and sat up with difficulty, clumsily wiping her dripping nose on the shoulder of her dress. "What little girl?"

"Shut _up_."

The cruelty and coldness of that answer caused new tears to spring into Lula's eyes. "It was that man wasn't it? The man that stopped me in the street. We were walking to the park, but I don't remember actually getting there…"

"That's 'cause you didn't, stupid. He knocked you out and dragged you here and now we're all just sitting around until he decides when to kill us."

"You're _awful_," accused Lula, unable to stomach rudeness on top of everything else.

There was a silence. "Sorry," the other voice returned quietly. "I've been here a few days and no one knows where I am. The darkness...it makes you a little crazy. And I'm a bit of a brat as it is. Do you think anyone knows you're missing yet?"

"My mum will, when I don't come home tonight. I'm very regular in my routines; if I'm not home by eight o'clock she'll worry." That thought gave Lula some hope.

The other girl snorted with humorless laughter. "_My_ mum and dad are probably still stretched out on a beach in Zanzibar. Our nanny is thick as two short planks, she'll be too worried about getting into trouble. It'll take her days to call the police, and then she'll tell them I just ran away. Pretty sure I'm toast."

A little cry broke in, followed by a tiny, terrified voice. "Where's Mummy? Mummy, mummy! I want her, where is she?"

The other girl spoke soothingly. "Hush, Lily. You're all right. Move towards my voice, there's a good girl. Reach out for my hand, I'm right here."

The whimpering continued but Lula could hear a rustle off to the left as the child moved to obey. "The two of you aren't chained?" she whispered, noting the absence of clanking accompanying the movements of her fellow captives.

"We're in cages. He must not have enough."

Panic seized through Lula and her instincts urged her to thrash and scream until someone heard her. But she wasn't a fool either; surely the other girl had tried that already and it hadn't gotten her anywhere.

Swallowing her terror, she shook her head in a vain attempt to banish the strands of hair stuck to her tear-bathed cheeks. "I'm Lula Thatcher," she supplied, fearing silence almost as much as the uncertainty of her fate. "The little one is Lily? And what is your name?"

"Don't give up do you? Fine. I'm called Rosemary. Pleasure to meet you."

Lula ignored the sarcasm. "Rosemary. What do you think he wants with us?"

"Nothing good, Lula Thatcher," replied Rosemary, her voice dry but a little gentler. "Nothing good."


	12. Chapter 12

Phryne maneuvered the Hispano-Suiza over the grassy field, hoping the various dips and bumps of the terrain would not upset the suspension too terribly. But the place where Marjorie Hyde's body had been discovered was a good distance from the main house, and Phryne wanted to be able to leave quickly if she discovered something.

Her meeting with the Hydes had been brief; Mrs. Hyde had been confined to her bed since her daughter's body had been discovered, so it was with Mr. Hyde that Phryne had conversed. Marjorie had been their only daughter, and it was unlikely that their marriage would survive her loss; this much was evident to Phryne already. Mr. Hyde was clearly disturbed and frustrated with his wife's absence, and the haggard look on his young face spoke of a man whose sanity was swiftly unwinding.

"The police are too busy worrying about the second child that was kidnapped," said Mr. Hyde through his fingers, which were clamped tightly over his face. He rubbed his hands up and down several times before placing them back on his knees, his eyes now ringed with red from the kneading. "Don't mistake me—of course they should be most concerned with the living victim. But I am concerned that, if it turns out the two cases are not connected, Marjorie's case will grow cold and we will be too late. We've already mistaken the culprit once, chasing after that cursed nanny. I need an extra set of eyes focused on my daughter. I hope you can help us."

Phryne reassured him that she would do everything in her power, then asked to be led to the place where Marjorie had been found. Thus, she found herself driving the Hispano to yet another crime scene, joined by the Hydes' groundskeeper and Dot, who was hanging on to her hat in the backseat.

"Just there," said the groundskeeper, who happened to be the poor soul who had discovered Marjorie's body. He did not look too keen to be returning to the spot; in fact he looked positively green. "She was laid there, beneath the almond tree."

Phryne stopped the car and turned the engine off. "Thank you, Mr. Sinclair. You may remain in the car, or walk back to the house if you wish. Come along, Dot."

The moment Phryne stepped out of the car, her mind began logging the details of her surroundings. The tree was placed far from the road, and surely Jack would have mentioned it if tire tracks had been discovered near the body. So the body was carried in on foot, a distance of at least half a mile, then laid down beneath the almond tree, which spring had kissed with luscious pink blooms.

"It's a peaceful place," said Dot, sniffling a little. "A kind place, to lay a child to rest."

"I was thinking the same, Dot," replied Phryne, her voice full of suspicion rather than sentimentality. "Whoever left the body here...they brought her _home_. They risked discovery, for the police had been looking for Marjorie for days before she was found. I have no doubt they were watching the house. And she was not tossed carelessly on the side of the road. She was carried out here, laid beneath the almond tree, almost as if to use it as a grave marker...those are the actions of someone who cared about her, who felt badly about her death."

Dot narrowed her eyes in confusion. "But the paper," she whispered. "The paper said her death was violent. Why would someone who cared about her hurt her so terribly?"

Phryne's pressed her lips into a grim line. "I fear the paper very much glossed over the reality of what happened to this child. Jack has hinted that the sight of the body was gruesome indeed. That image is very hard to reconcile with a person who would carry her back to her home and lay her to rest beneath such a pretty tree. It doesn't add up."

She scrutinized the grass around the tree, searching for the place where the body had lain. At length she found the spot, betrayed by a swath of crushed grass, some of which had turned brown and brittle. "This is where she was placed, Dot." Phryne swept the fingers of her gloved hand through the dirt, searching. The best she came up with were a few strands of curly blond hair.

Glad for the bright sunlight overhead, Phryne pulled Dot by the arm to stand beside her. "We will spiral out in opposite directions. Use those sharp eyes, Dot, we must see if there's anything at all the police missed."

It was slow, tedious work. The recent rain made the ground soft, and also increased the probability that anything useful had been washed away.

After an hour, Phryne and Dot were so far apart they could no longer make out each other's words, even when shouted, but a glint of metal made Phryne cry out anyway. She fell to her knees, oblivious to her delicate stockings, and fished the little circle of gold out of the mud. She was astonished she had spotted it at all, half-buried beneath soil and thick blades of grass. But there it was—a golden cufflink. An _engraved_ golden cufflink, as luck would have it.

Dot had started to jog in Phryne's direction at her mistress's yell, and Phryne waved her closer. She used her thumb to wipe the soil from the face of the cufflink—the letters _TLA_ were cut into the metal in a diamond shape.

This was not Alfons Verlinden's cufflink. But by now, Phryne had firmly concluded that Verlinden had not disposed of Marjorie's body himself.

—

The front page of every newspaper in Melbourne would be plastered with Alfons Verlinden's face tomorrow morning. Jack had arranged for posters to be printed and displayed in every tram car and train station in the city, and had set up road blocks on each of the major roads leaving town. It was an expensive endeavor, but money was the commissioner's concern, and he had given Jack leave to do whatever was necessary. By tomorrow, the only people in Melbourne who would not have the likeness of Alfons Verlinden burned into the back of their eyelids would be the blind.

Radio stations were announcing Verlinden's description every hour on the hour, and a tip line had been set up. Twelve constables were stationed at desks with telephones to field the tips that came in.

Surely it was enough. They would find him. They _had_ to find him. Then the only difficulty would be getting him to reveal the whereabouts of Lily and Rosemary.

Ah, yes. Rosemary. He made a mental note to mention Rosemary to Phryne before the day was out, for she would be furious if she had to read about the second disappearance in the paper.

There was a tap on the door frame followed by a thread of French perfume curling beneath his nostrils. Confident that it must be Phryne, and resolving to tell her about Rosemary immediately, the shock registered clearly on his face when he looked up to see Lady Océane standing in the doorway.

"Oh dear, forgive me if I've startled you, Inspector," she apologized, sashaying into the office in a sensible tweed suit that ran more to Dot's tastes than Phryne's. Jack was not sure what to make of this change of costume, and watched the woman closely as she took a seat opposite him, crossing her legs smartly and fixing him with a pleasant smile.

"Not at all, Madame de Ligne. What can I do for you?"

"I hoped you would come clean with me, Inspector, and tell me what is all this fuss over Alfons. It is something serious, that much I know, for you to have men stationed at my house day and night. Please, I would just like a little more information."

As she spoke, Jack studied her, analyzing every piece of her, determined to solve her, somehow. At home she wore jewels and evening gowns, in public she wore a conservative suit. But it was not so conservative, on second glance. The creamy silk blouse she wore beneath the jacket was unbuttoned almost to the point of indecency, so that when she leaned forward, as she was doing now, an unseemly amount of cleavage spilled forth. Perhaps a button had dislodged itself without her knowledge, but somehow Jack doubted it. She seemed too careful a woman to miss something like that. What was more, the wide-eyed, sugary-sweet expression she gave him bespoke a woman using her body as a distraction. Jack had to admit, it was artfully done...she was chastity and sex, all wrapped into one polished package, and there were men out there that would fall at her feet just to have her look their way.

Jack was not one of those men, however. "What would you like to know, Madame?"

"The officers at my house, they will hardly speak to me. They think whatever it is Alfons has done is too horrible for my fragile female sensibilities. They should realize. They should know, like every other Belgian woman I forgot what fragile was the moment the Germans invaded."

Just that quickly, Jack was forced to regard her in a whole new light. Somehow he had assumed, because she was wealthy, that the war had not touched her the way it had her countrymen.

"You did not escape Belgium in time?"

She shook her head, a strand of silvery-blond hair drifting out of her coiffure and into her eyes. "My father would not abandon his country. Like many he thought neutrality would make us immune. He moved us from our village in the Ardennes into Leuven. He thought the city would protect us."

Jack swallowed, knowing all too well what fate had befallen the city of Leuven. He felt a sudden, stinging guilt for passing judgement on her clothing. "I'm so sorry. Your family?"

Madame de Ligne gave a sad smile, her eyes shining with a thin film of tears. Her head gave a tiny shake that said everything. "Please, Inspector. I only want to know what he is accused of."

She would find out from the morning paper in any case. It was the least he could do to tell her himself.

Jack leaned back in his chair and propped his elbows on the armrests, clasping his hands together at his middle. "Murder. He is suspected of killing a child, and abducting two others. I am sorry, Madame de Ligne. The whole thing is an ugly business."

Madame de Ligne covered her gasp with her gloved hand and let a tear spill from her eye. "Oh, no. Alfons? Murder! How can it be?"

Once again, Jack found himself watching her, struggling to differentiate between sincerity and playacting. If acting, it was very good; if sincerity, it rang just a tiny bit false. But this could have many causes, Jack justified. Perhaps she was less surprised than she pretended to be. Or maybe she was just one of those people who did not experience strong emotions, and had taught herself to put on a show so people didn't think her strange.

Whatever it was, Jack did not have time to riddle it out. "I'm so sorry, Madame de Ligne. But I can refer you to an agency, should you need to hire a new bodyguard."

"That's very kind, Inspector. I may take you up on that."

Jack heard the front door to the station open and close.

"Ja-ack!" sang a voice from outside his office. He felt every inch of his skin flare with awareness at the sound of it.

Phryne had entered the station looking worse for the wear. Her knees and white gloves were smeared with dirt, and there were smudges on her blouse as well. She was walking towards him, her palm held out to display something small and golden. When she noticed Jack's guest, however, her fingers closed hastily over her prize.

"Madame de Ligne!" exclaimed Phryne, smiling at said lady while flashing Jack a questioning look. "How nice to see you. I hope I haven't interrupted. Is the Inspector is being helpful?"

Jack was surprised that Phryne had not commented on Madame de Ligne's discomposure, but when he looked back at the woman her face was dry and clear. _Playacting_, he concluded to himself. That, or a very efficient handkerchief.

"Miss Fisher, a pleasure as always. And yes, he has been most helpful. Anyways, I was just leaving—thank you, Inspector, for your time."

Jack observed good manners, rising to his feet to see his guest out though still feeling rather out of sorts about her. She rose from her chair with an almost regal grace, acknowledging Phryne with a light kiss on the cheek before promptly departing.

"That was cozy," Jack commented as Phryne closed the door behind her. "I didn't realize the two of you were on cheek-kissing terms."

Phryne shrugged and moved towards him, warm desire in her eyes. Jack did not think twice, welcoming her into his arms for a kiss that lit fires in even the deepest, darkest places of his heart. "Phryne," he breathed as she pulled away, stroking his fingers down the side of her neck.

"I've already made a mess of you," she laughed, brushing crumbs of dirt from where her gloves had clutched him and wiping lipstick from his mouth. "But look, Jack, you won't believe this. I've found something."

He plucked the little golden object from her palm. It was a cufflink, engraved with the initials _TLA_. Or _TAL_, more accurately, if the surname was in the traditional middle position.

"I'm sure you're about to explain its significance to me," he prompted, examining her lovely face. He was glad to find that familiar light in her eyes. When Phryne's eyes lit up like that, it meant she was on to something. It meant she was about to solve a case. And God knew he could use one of her miracles right now.

"I found it," she explained, "On the Hydes' property. I estimate about four hundred or so yards from the tree where the body was found."

Jack held up a hand to stop her, not believing his ears at first. She had gone to Marjorie Hyde's crime scene without telling him? "Phryne. What were you doing at the Hydes'?"

She gave him a sheepish look. She did not wear contrition well, and Jack prepared himself for whichever misdeed she was about to cop to.

"I got a call this morning after you left, from Marjorie Hyde's great-aunt, who happens to be a friend of Mac's."

Jack gave a little smirk. Such a coincidence could only happen to Phryne. "Ah, but of course. I should have guessed. In fact, I'm surprised it took this long. And they hired you on, yes?"

She watched his face, and he knew she was trying to judge how upset he was with her. In truth, Jack really hadn't the energy to be upset. He had not even really considered her banned from the Hyde case since unburdening himself to her at the Maison de Ligne yesterday. Any frustration he might vent towards her now would be for the sake of pettiness alone, because she had not told him of her plans beforehand, and he was too delighted with her for other reasons to summon any such negative emotions.

Besides, she had never asked his permission before taking a case and he would be a fool to try and impose such a rule now. Far be it from Jack to attempt to place restrictions on Phryne Fisher, whether he was sharing her bed or not. He was a wiser man than that.

"They did," she replied. "So I went out this afternoon to the place where Marjorie's body was found and discovered the cufflink."

Jack shook his head in disbelief. "I had a row of twenty constables walk that field back and forth for hours. The found nothing."

"I suspect the owner must have dropped it then stepped on it, burying it in the ground. Then, when it rained the other day, just enough soil was washed away to see the gold. If it had anyone else's initials on it, Jack, I would say this had nothing to do with the case. That it arrived on the field after Marjorie was found, or perhaps even years before. But look—T-L-A. Try and guess, I bet you can't!"

But she was wrong. From the eagerness on her face, as well as his mind for details, he knew immediately what she was thinking. "Phryne," he said breathlessly, "What was the name of Walter Lipscomb's father?"

Phryne bounced on her feet with excitement. "Yes, Jack! Before we found this, Dot and I were formulating a theory. A theory that someone who cared for Marjorie had brought her body and laid her beneath the almond tree on her parents' property. Why would the man who brutalized her take such care in the placement of her remains? We both agreed, someone else had been charged with the disposal of the body. But who?"

Jack was growing impatient. "Phryne…"

She rushed on. "Tom Lipscomb. That was Walter's father's name. I'm not sure what the A is for, but I know this cufflink belonged to Walter. He was wearing its brother when we interviewed him. I only noticed because it was strange that he would be wearing them at all, and I didn't think a thing about it at the time, other than making the tiniest mental note that they were mismatched, but this...Jack, we have to call Walter back in, you said he was holding something back. I'd say this is a pretty big something."

Jack snatched the telephone hastily from his desk and told the operator to connect him to Madame de Ligne's residence. In a few moments, a maid answered. "Quickly now," said Jack, trying not to bark at the girl. "I need you to get me an officer, whichever is closest, please."

There was some fumbling over the line and before long one of his colleagues spoke. "Yardman here."

"Sam, it's Jack Robinson. I need you to find the houseboy, name of Walter Lipscomb, and hold him until I get there. Something has come to light. Sit him down somewhere and don't let him out of your sight."

"About time we had some excitement around here. Consider it done."

"Do you think he might know where Verlinden is? Or where he's keeping Lily?" breathed Phryne, right at Jack's heels as they all but fled the station.

"All I know is that he certainly did not participate willingly. You drive, it'll be faster."

Phryne looked at him in shock, but rushed to her own car obediently. "Who are you, and what have you done with my Inspector?"

He waved away her disbelief. "Pedal to the metal, Miss Fisher, we have a killer to catch."

The engine roared to life and Phryne fixed Jack with her most devastating smile. "You needn't tell me twice!"


	13. Chapter 13

Note: So WHEW. I'm so impressed with myself that I finished this chapter tonight. I discovered this little thing called tumblr a few days ago (let's be real, it was the MFMM side of tumblr that was my downfall) and it kind of swallowed me whole. BUT I got this chapter written and that's what matters! This is kind of the last chapter before the sh*t starts going down so bear with all my dialogue. Thank you thank you thank you again to all you lovely readers who have stuck it out this far! Y'all are AMAZE!

* * *

><p>Inspector Yardman met Jack and Phryne at Madam de Ligne's door. "I'm so sorry, Jack, we haven't been able to locate the boy. We've been questioning the staff, no one has a clue where he could be."<p>

The news seemed to hit Jack like a fist to the gut. He planted his hands on his hips, bowing his head and closing his eyes for a moment. Phryne's heart clenched, and in that moment she felt his disappointment even more acutely than her own. She longed to reach for him, to reassure him, but decided he probably would rather not have to explain the intimate gesture to his colleagues. So she kept her hands at her sides and maintained a professional distance. But it was not easy.

"What about the cook?" Jack pressed, his face hard. "Walter said she got him the job, she would probably know best where he could be."

Yardman sighed. "Hasn't got an inkling. Just said that Walter won't be found unless he wants to be."

"Unless he's being held against his will," argued Phryne. "Is there anything to indicate foul play?"

Yardman shook his head. "Not that we've found yet. It seems that no one has seen him since shortly after you questioned him yesterday."

Jack opened his mouth to respond, but the sound of tires on gravel made everyone turn. The butler rushed past them to help his mistress out of the car. Phryne was surprised but impressed that Lady Océane opted to drive herself; she had struck Phryne as the type to keep a chauffeur.

The Lady took the butler's hand and rose fluidly from the car, smoothing her skirt and cocking her head slightly as she observed the people gathered on her porch. "Inspector, Miss Fisher," she said, acknowledging them both with a tick of her head. "I did not expect to see you again so soon. And you managed to beat me home too! Is everything all right?"

Jack ground his jaw, causing the hollows of his cheeks to deepen slightly. "Madame, we are trying to find your houseboy. Have you any idea where he could be?"

The marchioness blinked once before concerned creased her brow. That blink was such a tiny gesture, but Phryne caught it and could not help but interpret it as a tell.

"Now Walter is missing too? I don't believe this!" answered Océane, removing her gloves and clenching them in one hand. "Have you spoken to Mrs. Martin? She knows the boy best."

Phryne recorded a footnote in her memory that the Lady had called Walter by his first name. A little strange. Perhaps she was just one of those women who made a point to be on first name terms with her staff, but still...it was unexpected, particularly considering he was her lowest employee and she'd only hired him on two weeks prior. Phryne wasn't sure why, but it made her stomach squirm unpleasantly.

"Mrs. Martin does not know where he is," replied Jack in clipped tones. "Inspector Yardman, please call the station if the boy turns up. I will check in later."

And with that, he gripped Phryne abruptly but gently by the elbow and steered her back to the car. Phryne did not try to stop him, trusting that he had his reasons and that he would explain them to her momentarily.

He waited until they were rumbling back down the mansion's gravel drive to speak. His voice was low and gruffer than usual, and his face was turned away from her, eyes gazing out the window. "Rosemary Trant, one of Jane's schoolmates, went missing from Warleigh Grammar two days ago. The day after Lily was taken. The day before his encounter with Jane. I'm sorry I didn't tell you. But we're looking for two girls. And now Walter, too," He wipes his knuckles over the hard line of his mouth then finally turned to look at her. "Where is he keeping them, Phryne?"

Phryne let the information seep into her. Three. Three young people, missing and possibly murdered. One of them from the very place she trusted Jane's safety to, daily. She pulled off the road into a patch of grass, turning the car off so she could process his words. The sound of his voice, strung taut as a bow ribbon, prevented her from scolding him for keeping the news of Rosemary's disappearance from her. Besides, how many times had she withheld necessary information from him? She knew why he had done it, and she would reprimand him later for trying to spare her feelings. But right now, chastising was the last thing he needed. He needed her mind, he needed the formidable machine that was their minds _together_.

And the best way to jump start that machine was to start asking questions. She swiveled towards him on the seat, wanting to reach out for his hand but fearing the contact would be too distracting for both of them. "And why is he after children _and _adolescents? Don't these pedophiles generally stick to a type?"

Jack shook his head. "I don't think he's a pedophile, Phryne. Remember, Marjorie was not assaulted."

"She was not _raped_," Phryne corrected. "Jack, do we dare even hope that they are still alive? The way Marjorie ended up…" She could not think how to complete her sentence.

Jack's hands clenched into fists in his lap. "If they are alive, he's keeping them somewhere. Somewhere he feels secure. But where?"

"An abandoned building?" she suggested, struggling to picture where a man like Verlinden might feel safe holding two young prisoners, perhaps three, if he had Walter as well.

Jack tucked his chin, considering. "He's a careful man," he replied, at length. "A planner. He takes in all the details and controls them. He does not just snatch girls off the streets...he scales an unscaleable wall and spirits a child out of her bed. He fools the principal of a prestigious school into thinking he's a doctor and makes off with one of the students. Then has the audacity to return the next day and continue hunting. I don't think he would leave his captives on the premises of a property he does not control completely."

But Phryne's mind was still whirring on the question of how the victims were connected. It was unsettlingly similar to the baffling victim selection of Murdoch Foyle, and she wanted nothing more than to discover what was driving Verlinden's choices. Different ages, but all three girls were from upper class families and would have earned him a hefty ransom, had that been his goal. But with one child dead without a ransom letter ever being sent, it seemed safe to conclude that money was not Verlinden's motivation.

Something Jack had said suddenly clicked into place, and she was jolted back to the curly strands of blond hair she had found in the grass by the almond tree. "Hunting. Yes, Jack! He's _hunting_. And he _is_ hunting a type. Do we have a physical description of Rosemary?"

Jack glanced at her with expectation in his eyes. "Light hair, blue eyes. Sixteen years old. Pretty. Rich."

"_Rich_ is part of her physical description?" Despite the gravity of the topic, Phryne could not resist teasing him. "But Jack—Marjorie and Lily...both were blue-eyed blonds too, weren't they?"

Jack's eyes narrowed and he braced one hand on the dash, readjusting his position with a squeal of the leather upholstery. "You think that's the type he's after? Seems an odd distinction to make, especially if he is indeed a pedophile."

One of Phryne's shoulders bobbed. "He's not in his right mind, on that we can both agree, yes?"

Jack gave her a firm nod.

"And I have to wonder...Dot talked about how intently he watched his mistress at the garden party. She's a blue-eyed blond, too."

Jack frowned. "That's rather a stretch. You think he's abducting and murdering children that look like his mistress? What possible reason could have for that?"

Stalling for time to mull this over, Phryne fished a tube of lipstick from her handbag and angled the rearview mirror towards her as she dabbed it on.

Jack eyed her impatiently. "Oh, put that away, will you? You are pristine and you know it."

Phryne's freshly-painted pout widened into a grin. "Ooh, _pristine_. That _is_ high praise, Jack. Don't fret," she enticed, twitching up an eyebrow at him. "I'll take it off for you later."

His Adam's apple bobbed.

Satisfied with that reaction, she capped the lipstick with a satisfying click and slid it back into her bag. She shuffled her shoulders a bit, arranging herself comfortably once more, and traced her fingers over the glossy steering wheel. She could feel Jack's eyes on her. "Did Océane mention how long Verlinden has worked for her?"

"Only a few years, I think."

"And before?"

"We're waiting for the Belgians to track down his records."

Phryne groaned with frustration. "That could take ages!"

Jack turned up his palms a gesture of helplessness. "Alas, Miss Fisher, unless you have connections with the Police Fédérale—which I daresay would not surprise me—there isn't much help for it. Now start up the car, I have to get back to the station at once. I'd like to map out all of the abduction sites and look at them in relation to the de Ligne residence. See if we can find rhyme or reason."

"No," said Phryne, a sudden thought occurring. "We should go to my house. Jack, what if Walter wasn't kidnapped—what if he ran? I gave him my card before we left and told him to see me if he needed anything. I don't think he has many friends, Jack. He may come to me."

Jack considered, then nodded at her logic. "Don't suppose you have a map of the city at your house?"

Phryne did indeed, and a bit later they had it stretched across the dining room table. Jack was making meticulous dots with a red marking pen at all of the abduction sites. They pored over the map for hours, trying to reason with it, trying to draw some kind of connection between the seemingly random spots where little red circles bled into the paper.

They did not allow themselves a rest until their eyes were stinging from squinting at the minute details of the map, at which point they finally allowed themselves to retire to the parlor. The two found their way into familiar chairs, upholstered in golden velvet. Mr. Butler presented each of them with a sidecar in a crystal glass, but for a long while, neither cocktail was touched.

Phryne swiped edgily at her fringe, ensuring that it lay smooth, and finally took a sip of her drink. "Oh, Jack. Do you think he did something to Walter?"

Phryne counted ten ticks of the clock before Jack replied. "Anything might've happened. Perhaps Walter grew tired of Verlinden's abuse and decided to escape. Or if he was indeed the one who placed Marjorie's body beneath the almond tree, it could be that our questioning frightened him too much and he found somewhere else to hide. There's still no reason to believe he's been harmed. Or that he may not still turn up here."

Phryne sat up a little straighter, her thumb rubbing back and forth over the sharp facets of her crystal tumbler. "He was our breakthrough, Jack. He knows where the girls are being kept—he has to. How else would he find himself in possession of Marjorie's body?"

Jack leaned forward and placed a reassuring hand on her knee. "We're going to find him. Him and Verlinden. The entire city knows that monster's face, it's only a matter of time."

"And if we do find him? And he refuses to give up the children's location?"

Jack knew she was thinking of Murdoch Foyle, who had kept the secret of Janey's resting place for decades. And the possibility that Verlinden would try the same was all too real.

"He'll tell us, in exchange for his life. If we offer take hanging off the table I'm certain he'll get chatty indeed."

Phryne finished the rest of her drink in a single gulp. "If he hasn't found his way onto a boat already."

"Speaking of," said Jack, draining his glass and rising to his feet. "I really do have to get back to the station. No, don't try to argue, I have to be there. I'm leading the investigation, Miss Fisher, and I've been with you more than my own officers," he regarded her intensely for a moment, then added "Not that I haven't enjoyed every second."

"But Jack," Phryne protested. "It's getting late. If you sleep here you can get an early start in the morning. And I promised to take things off for you, remember?"

Heat flared in his eyes and he accepted her touch as she rose and slid her hands inside his jacket, bringing them to rest at his hips. He felt her wedge her fingertips beneath the waistband of his trousers, as if to anchor her grip. "There's a cot at the station that has my name on it. I probably won't get much sleep on it, but I daresay it'll be more than in your bedroom, especially if you're 'taking things off.'"

"I could take things off at the station, too," she cooed, raising on her tiptoes to press what he guessed would turn out to be a perfect print of her lips, just beneath his right ear. He shivered at the contact but gripped her elbows lightly, urging her away.

"That, my wicked Miss Fisher, is most absolutely out of the question. Tomorrow night, I promise you, I will return eagerly to your arms. But I cannot have constables putting in double shifts if I myself have not passed a single night at my desk. And you need to stay here and keep an eye out for Walter. You must telephone me at once if he turns up."

Phryne sighed in surrender but did not pull back, instead brushing a feathery kiss across his mouth. His body keened and tightened with the instinct to pull her in closer, to prolong their contact, to use his tongue and remind himself of the many textures inside her mouth, but to do so would devastate his resolve to leave her.

Sensing his struggle, Phryne released him and stepped back. "Good night, Jack. I'll telephone in the morning."

He reached out, running the backs of his fingers over her cheek, allowing himself that one final touch. "I'll think of you all night."

* * *

><p>There was a grinding of metal as a lock turned somewhere across the room. It was the moment Lula had been dreading—she was about to face her captor head-on.<p>

Light burst into the room like a scream and Lula squeezed her eyes shut at the harshness of it after hours and hours of darkness. It seemed to take ages before her eyes were strong enough to tolerate the glare. Too terrified to look upon their malefactor just yet, she examined her surroundings first, searching for the source of the voice that had kept her sane throughout the night—or was it day?

They appeared to be in some sort of basement, for there were no windows. To Lula's right were two built-in mesh lockers, perhaps just large enough to accommodate two grown men standing. Locked inside were Rosemary, who looked to be Lula's own age, and a lovely little girl with golden curls whose dirty face was streaked with tears.

"I've brought all of you some dinner."

Lula's head swung towards the voice in shock—for it was not the thin, accented voice of the man who had lured her away. No indeed—at the door stood a boy, just a little younger than she, carrying a tray with three bowls.

Sensing a possible ally, Lula began to pelt him with panicked questions, but the boy answered none of them. Somewhere in the midst of the commotion she was making, Lily had started to cry.

Seemingly unmoved, the boy shoved bowls of what looked like porridge into the holes that had been cut in the cages before advancing upon Lula.

She had never felt any violent tendencies, not even towards her younger siblings, who could be downright pests even at the best of times. But she wanted to kick out at the boy as he came near her. To lunge for him, to barrel into him headfirst and knock him down. But something in his eyes made her stop.

He extended the bowl to her. "Eat this very carefully," he whispered. "Don't try to get them out. Run. Run for help."

Then he tucked a crumpled bit of paper into her pocket and fled from the room, snapping the light off behind him. But Lula did not hear him latch the door.

She was furious at first. How did he expect her to do anything with her hands tied behind her back? And really, if he wanted to help her, why didn't he just release her himself?

_It's no use complaining_, Lula told herself, pushing away her frustration. She could choose either to act or stay locked in irons, awaiting whatever awful fate was in store for her.

She sucked in air to calm herself, contemplating the position of her body and how she might fish out what she suspected was a key from the bowl of porridge. She could get on her belly and search the bowl with her mouth...but then how to get the key to the lock at her wrists once she had it?

Her arms were clasped tight and high at her back, but if she pulled hard she might be able to push her backside through and twist her arms to the front.

It was painful, and more than once Lula feared her shoulders might pop out of joint. Her wrists became slippery as the metal began to cut into her skin, but at last she managed to stretch her arms just enough to get her hands under her bottom. From there it was a simple matter of twisting her arms into their natural position and shuffling her legs out from the loop created by her joined wrists.

Just like that, her hands were in front of her.

"What on earth are you doing over there?" hissed Rosemary, sounding frightened at all the noise her fellow prisoner was making.

"Escaping," Lula whispered back. She felt around for the bowl of mush and plunged her hand inside, wiggling her fingers until they met cold iron. She had been correct—it was a key.

Hands slippery with blood and porridge, she groped awkwardly for the padlock between her wrists. It was not easy, and the key kept slipping from her hands.

"Did he give you something?" whispered the shrewd Rosemary. "He gave you a key, didn't he?"

Lula grunted in response, for she had given up trying to use her slippery fingers and had clamped the key between her teeth instead. Yes, this was better. After a few misses the key slid into the hole with a pleasantly solid click. Using her molars for a better grip, Lula wrenched the key to the left. There was a grinding snap and the irons broke open, falling to the floor with a resounding _clank_.

"I did it," panted Lula as she let the key fall from her lips, hardly believing her own words. "I'm free."

There was a rattling in one of the lockers. "Well don't just stand there like a numpty, get us out too!"

Lula hesitated only for a second. The boy had told her to leave them, but Lula found she couldn't. She had to at least _try_.

"I'm coming," she whispered back, struggling to her feet despite the protests of her sore muscles. The pit in her stomach told her the key would not possibly work on the cages too. But she would try anyway.

She felt her way in the dark, banging her shin on a bench and biting her lip to keep from shouting out in pain. At last her fingers slipped along the cold mesh of the first cage. She felt for the hinges and the handle and found the padlock that kept Rosemary trapped inside.

"Quickly, quickly! If he didn't come running at that infernal racket you made he must not be here, we have to leave now!"

Lula's thumb brushed over the metal until she found the keyhole. She pushed the key in, twisting it with all her might. The lock held firm.

"It's not the right key," she half-sobbed, hands shaking as she jimmied the key around in the lock. "It won't open!"

She heard Rosemary sigh audibly. She could practically taste the other girl's terror and crushing disappointment. "Go, then, go quickly before he comes back. Get help. Get the police and bring them here. Now, Lula, go!"

Lula nodded in the dark, pocketing the key and wiping her tears on her sleeve. The thought of having to escape by herself was terrifying.


End file.
